Sanctuary
by AliCatter
Summary: Lorelai can't get started.
1. Chapter 1

**AliCatter** is the collaborative work of authors **catterwall** and **aliross33**.

And we're both eternally indebted to **FauxFrancie/George Eliot**, our wonderful (and frighteningly thorough) beta.

* * *

Luke had caught sight of her earlier in the day, striding by the diner windows in a blue dress. So he knew what to watch out for.

He assumed Lorelai and Rory had arrived already, though he carefully refrained from scanning the crowd as he drove past. As he slowed down for the caterers marching out from behind the building, he felt completely self-conscious of his cargo; though he'd tied the chuppah down as securely as possible, the dirt road caused a rattling that failed to go unnoticed.

Everyone at the service entrance turned and stared at the scruffy guy with the fruity-looking poles. He sighed, staring up at the carvings. He recalled how lovingly he had shaped each piece for her, as a way to let go, to work his frustrations out with his hands. Keeping her face in his mind for hours as he tooled away, tapping and hammering and picturing her happy.

Then, predictably, she had found a way to discard it, calling off the wedding, letting his handiwork rot in her disheveled front yard. He felt as though, when he first gave it to her, it was his way of getting in the last word on their relationship. Then she'd screwed with him again by continuing on as before, keeping him at arm's length.

And now, there it stood; a majestic, overly-elaborate golden archway framing the uselessness of his existence, as well as the faded exterior of his truck, as it pulled behind the inn's main walkway.

Yesterday morning was the last time Lorelai had spoken to him, asking him again to accept her apology. For jumping down his throat the way she did. For screaming at him, for hitting such a high pitch that her voice sounded like a connecting modem. For blaming him when he didn't deserve it.

He had refused her quietly. Mainly because he wanted her to keep asking.

Luke motioned over one of the vase-holding guys, the two of them sliding the chuppah onto its palettes and closing the bed of the truck.

Now, where was Sookie.

Luke craned his neck, hands jammed in his pockets, trying to pick her out. Couldn't see a single white dress. Saw Jackson wearing a skirt, though. That was weird. Kirk singing at the piano. Saw the whole damn town getting drunk and milling around. Actually, he was glad to be headed back to the diner. As soon as he could find someone to take this thing off his hands. But still no Sookie.

He didn't particularly want to haul it down the hill to where the ceremony was taking place, though he could clearly see where it was to be inserted on the lawn: in front of the rows of chairs, next to the pile of flowers, right by the woman in the blue dress.

Damn.

There she was, standing with Rory's dad, her head thrown back in laughter. His arm was around her waist, trying to get her to dance by the piano, getting her to set down her glass. Luke watched him paw at her, watched her respond with her body; he wanted to move, but found himself unable to tear his eyes away.

Once he'd focused on her, her laugh was the only thing he could hear, floating up to him from the crowd.

They hadn't been on good terms in weeks. Lorelai was Christopher's problem now, not his. Though the thought wasn't as comforting as he would've liked it to be.

He watched as she tried to walk away from him, undoubtedly giving some excuse involving Rory, seeing her laugh as he grabbed her arm and led her back to the piano.  
Lorelai would move on, whether Luke openly forgave her or not. He understood that suddenly, feeling the full weight of it settle into his chest.

Christopher spun her out of his arms and she snapped back, clutching his lapels as he dipped her toward the ground. She was laughing so hard with him that Luke could hear her gasping for breath.

He closed his eyes for a moment then marched back to the truck. He pulled the wheeled palettes toward the lawn and down the hill, throwing all his pent-up energy into staring straight ahead, keeping his mind clear. Mobilizing the solid wooden structure through so many blades of grass. He figured if he had any of that energy left over later he could put some of it into spinning his own noose when he got home.

Lorelai saw Gilbert the Goat sliding past her, upside-down, as Christopher steadied her lower back somewhere around his knee. She quickly righted herself, almost taking her dance partner down in the process, just in time to see Luke pulling her precious gift across the lawn.

Her instinct was to yell after him, to let go of Christopher and find out where he was going. Her voice, however, caught in her throat as she stared after him.

She wanted to know if he was taking the thing back, since she hadn't married Max, and was now giving it to Jackson and Sookie instead. Maybe he'd found out that she'd slept with Rory's dad, and this was his way of telling her. She wondered instinctually if, maybe, quite possibly, this time he'd forgive her if she asked. If maybe now he'd just call her a raving lunatic and squeeze her shoulder as he walked away, his eyes crinkling into a smile as he glanced back at her, stumbling over himself a little bit.

And as Christopher took her hand and led her back toward the bar, she couldn't help but turn and watch Luke as he adorned her chuppah with the flowers laid nearby. The way he threaded the vines so delicately, covering the thin, sturdy columns with pink buds.

Christopher squeezed her hand, bringing her back, flashing her that smile she was so comfortable in, that she was used to being the cause of, and the fluttery feeling in her stomach made another appearance.

"Hey Lor," he tugged on her hand, looking satisfied with himself. "Have you seen Rory? I should find her before the ceremony starts."

She smiled against his mouth, then backed away from him, letting go of his hand. "I'll go find her for you. I think she's in the woods with Dean."

He smiled, then flipped his wrist over, glancing down at the watch Sherry had given him for his birthday. "Don't worry about it. It's better that I talk to her alone."

Lorelai nodded, understanding. "I'm gonna go check on Sookie, then. I'll see you at the ceremony?"

They kissed again, then headed in different directions. Chris in the direction of the woods, Lorelai back across the lawn and to the parlor of the inn.

Luke was kneeling to anchor the chuppah to the ground, his broad back turned away from her. She noticed the beads of sweat tracing down from under his cap as he worked.

She wanted to offer him something to drink, but couldn't will him to look up.


	2. Chapter 2

Christopher snapped his phone shut and turned back toward the crowd. He wondered how it was that the scene hadn't changed, people still milling and murmuring, though his version of earth had just been knocked off its axis.

His knees locked as he stood in the shaded grove, vaguely wondering if it were normal for this part of the woods to look like a Dali painting. Everything after the word _pregnant_ had sort of begun to dematerialize.

His line of sight focused on the people in the crowd, beaming and radiant, glowing under the slowly setting sun. They were all taking their seats. Christopher joined them from where he stood, plunking down on the grass, not registering the trail of ants under his hands as he pulled up the moist blades, ripped up the roots, and tossed the divets a few feet away.

Sookie's wedding was probably starting. Lorelai was probably looking for him. But he really, really didn't want to go back there.

He felt like an abandoned child, the dull ache in his chest insisting he'd lost something vital, something crucial to his survival. And though it was only something he'd embraced 24 hours earlier- Lorelai as a partner, Rory as a daughter- he knew that it was impossible now to do without. Going back to Sherry and a baby would be impossible.

No life could be as good as the one he'd finally opened the door to just yesterday. He'd waited for it, always had it in the back of his head, always knowing that it would be there for him when he was ready. The life that was waiting for him just over the hill there, the one probably looking for him at Sookie's wedding, the one with the matching blue dresses.

Sherry was foie gras. She was Botox. The Zone. Her Birken bag was her prized possession. She wasn't strollers and Thanksgiving and tequila on the balcony, hearth and home. She'd make a horrible Tooth Fairy. And judging by her reaction to the overflowing toilet last week, he didn't see how the hell she was going to handle the constant spree of bodily functions that constitute a baby's life.

This made it even more difficult for him to get a good grasp on the situation; Sherry couldn't possibly be pregnant, couldn't possibly bear a child. It was like having the Backstreet Boys open for the Sex Pistols- it was just going against nature's intentions.

And besides that, she had freakishly narrow hips. You couldn't even begin to squeeze a human life through there, right?

But there it was, her voice echoing in his head. Pregnant. I'm _pregnant_, Christopher. Fuck. There was no way in hell he could let this could happen. He had to stop it, to go on with his plans with Lorelai and Rory. It was too late for Sherry; they were over. He had decided. She had thrown things, and then he'd left. Ships had sailed, farms had been bought, chickens had hatched. Completely over.

He thought back to their most recent altercation, before he came to Stars Hollow. The one that started with Chris kissing Sherry's neck, the one that escalated into Sherry saying, "Well, I'm sorry I have a headache tonight. Why don't you go in the bathroom and think about Lorelai?" And ended with Christopher staying in a hotel room, thinking about Lorelai.

She was just such a bitch sometimes. In the beginning she'd been so sweet, so affectionate, yet willing to give him the space he required. And that was precisely it- the difference between Lorelai and the other relationships he'd had- with her, he didn't want any space. He wanted to be with her, completely. To go to Luke's with her every morning, to drive Rory to school, to have the Chinese food waiting when the girls got home. It was the life he'd fantasized about as a teenager, being an adult with her in their own adult house, doing adult things. He'd started thinking about it even before Lorelai ever got pregnant.

But now, she was going to ruin it, ruin everything. She would make him keep the baby. She would trap him in this perfect brownstone with a perfect Volvo in a perfect life. And he'd be fucking miserable.

The increasingly painful lump in Christopher's throat complemented the anger that was rising in his chest. He dug his fingers deep into the ground at his sides, body trembling, closing his fists and crushing the dirt in his palms. She was ruining absolutely everything. Again.

He lifted his head, swallowing in a feeble attempt to suppress the lump, and began feeling dizzy. His throat felt like he'd been standing over a campfire too long, inhaling too much smoke. That bitter, harsh, brown taste filled his senses. His eyes were so dry they burned.

Two blue figures stepped to the head of the aisle, one craning over the other, searching the heads in the crowd. He had to get back. Now.

Walking across the lawn, he slid into his seat just as the music began to play.

He turned and watched her walk down the aisle, holding her gaze as she and Rory floated by in time to Ella Fitzgerald. God, she was beautiful.

She was beautiful, and she wanted him. She finally wanted him. They were finally together, after years of wondering if she could be happy with someone else, wondering if she regretted not marrying him at sixteen. He rubbed his throbbing temples and knew, he knew, that they were made for each other. And that Sherry probably wouldn't want this kid anyway, unless she had been marathoning her Diff'rent Strokes DVDs and was feeling particularly maternal.  
He'd be able to convince her otherwise, though. No matter how maternal she might be feeling.

Rory floated by next to her mother, glancing at him and grinning sheepishly.

Rory, the very image of anything Christopher had ever considered perfect. Almost… completely holy somehow, he thought, almost not of this world. Certainly not of the world he'd been living in Boston, or Hartford, or any place he'd called home.

And he had made promises, and he wouldn't go back on his word. He wasn't that guy anymore.

Lorelai, too. He said he'd be there, for real this time, and he meant it.

He returned his attention to Lorelai, watching her watch Sookie drift down the aisle after her, both faces replete with bliss.

His head was beginning to clear as he thought of Lorelai and Rory, standing with him, telling him they wanted him in their life. That he was welcome there as a permanent fixture, as a real father and husband.

Christopher would be responsible this time and stick with his word. The ball of anger became shrouded in a sense of pride, an overwhelming feeling that, when you phrased it a certain way, he was doing the right thing.

After the ceremony he trotted up to Lorelai, bringing her a drink. "You look beautiful," he said as he handed it off. Lorelai used the napkin from under her glass to swipe some of the sweat off of Christopher brow.

She smiled. "You okay? You looked a little queasy back there."

Laughing as lightly as he could, he took her arm. "I'm fine, Lorelai. I promise."

"Oh yeah? You were totally un-freaked watching me walk down an aisle?" She poked him playfully, but he caught her finger in his fist, his face becoming more open, more serious.

"Completely not freaked. I told you."

He snickered and shook his head, marveling at how grown-up he'd become in just a few short days. Taking responsibility with Lorelai, finally, was an incredibly liberating feeling.

Her eyes softened before closing completely, pulling him into a sweet kiss. He felt like he was melting again, like he was back in the Dali painting, time dripping slowly off the branches of the trees. This time, though, it was because he knew that this was where he belonged. In her arms, her mouth like cotton candy.

The vibrating on his hip startled him, and he realized she was calling him.

No way. She couldn't make him deal with this, it wasn't his problem anymore. He forced her out of his mind and smiled at Lorelai. "Just work. I guess they're going crazy there without me."

"They depend on you a lot there, huh? Well, that's what you get for being Mr. Success."

He laughed nervously.

Christopher didn't know if it was the ball of anger he'd been rubbing at, or maybe he was just bursting with love for Lorelai and Rory, but suddenly his heart felt like a tick, one that was gorging itself with blood. So many emotions were pumping so quickly through his system, their courses slicked with gin, the air in the room eluding his straggling lungs.

"Right, yeah," he said. He felt like he was choking. "Hey guess what, I need another drink. You?" He swallowed what was left in his glass, blood rushing into his face, making him perspire.

He knew the past few were catching up to him, his stomach lurching as he breathed a burp into the back of his hand.

As the bartender handed him another gin and tonic, Rory approached with a smile, curling him into a hug and kissing him on the cheek. "I love that you're here," she said to him, her big, cobalt-colored eyes flickering in his mind. He recognized pieces of himself in her moon pie face, certain looks and certain gestures that he couldn't remember giving her.

This girl was everything he wanted to be. And he was hers.

"I'm not going anywhere, kid."

Christopher squeezed her hand briefly, dropping it as his cell phone buzzed again. Reaching into his pocket without looking, he silenced it and smiled at Rory, wiping his brow with his sleeve. "I told you, I'm here for good."

She smiled her angelic smile and went to find her mom.

The rest of the afternoon sped by in the haze of celebration, the evening finding the party in the parlor of the inn. Christopher, continuing to be overwhelmed by the situation, was struggling to maintain his composure as he wandered from conversation to conversation; proper waltz etiquette with Miss Patty, Boston's farmer's markets with Jackson, the merits of Charlie Parker with Morey. Even Kirk and politics, some town gossip with Babette.

And each conversation meant a fresh drink, each drink further threatening the release of festering emotions, as his phone buzzed on relentlessly.

He was in pretty bad shape by the time people started to leave, waving goodbyes and hauling off flower arrangements. Lorelai appeared at his side, slipping a hand inside his jacket and to the small of his back. "Still having fun?"

"You know it," Christopher said, trying to sound nonchalant. "How're you doing?"

She grinned devilishly, her hand beginning to slide downward. "I wish you'd come upstairs with me so I can show you." Her eyes alone, sleepy and sexy, were stirring more in him than anything Sherry had ever inspired.

He smiled and kissed her forcefully, trying not to sway as he put his glass down on the table. His fingers dug into her neck as he embraced her, giving her a massage. He noticed her wince, but wasn't sure if it was from the pressure or his breath.

"After you."

She smiled briefly, taking him by the hand.

Once at the top of the stairs, Christopher stopped Lorelai from fiddling with the key and whirled her around. "I want you to know," he said, staring deeply into her beautiful eyes. "I'm not leaving this time."

With that, he pinned her body against the wall, pressing his tongue into her mouth, drawing his hands through her hair.

The kiss, coupled with the force of his body, had expelled the air from her lungs, and she found it difficult to breathe; his tongue felt like a heavy wet plug in her mouth as it slid lazily from side to side.

She realized then just how drunk he must be and pressed lightly against his chest, craning her head back. His body responded against hers, refusing her subtle complaints. He pressed her even more deeply, breathing rapidly through his nose.

Christopher's shirt, soaked through with sweat, was alarming to her. Though she'd had a few drinks herself, his lazy pupils and clumsy hands were overwhelming.

He ground his waist into her, though there wasn't an apparent erection, and removed his face from hers. He didn't know why she wasn't responding to him, but he'd always been determined to please her. Trying to pin her shoulders against the wall, he bit her neck roughly, scraping his sharp teeth across her pimpled flesh. Lorelai grimaced in pain, grabbing at the back of his collar.

"Chris!"

She took advantage of his surprise at her harsh tone and slid out of his grasp, though still struggling to free herself from the weight of his body. "What the hell is wrong with you!"

His phone began vibrating again during the struggle, and the growing frustration was taking over, making him shake violently. He jammed a hand forcefully into his pocket and fumbled out the phone. Flipping it open he screamed, "Stop fucking calling me!"

He turned, pulling back his arm unsteadily and hurtling the silver plastic against the back of the hallway wall. It hit the rosebud wallpaper with a muffled thud and a snap, the casing cracked open, and spilled its complicated-looking contents across the carpet.

A horrified Lorelai stood opposite, watching him carefully, her hairline tingling in the abrupt silence that followed.

"Christopher," she said sternly, though her voice almost a whisper. "What is the matter with you?"

His face was bright red and he looked confused, nearly in tears. He slid down onto the floor, the back of his jacket collecting splinters from the wooden wainscoting. His face was in his hands, muffling his words. "I just… "

Shoulders slumped over, he let out a shaky breath. "Fuck."

She kneeled by him, stroking his shin patiently, waiting for him to speak, her heart in her mouth. Sweat formed at her brow, a sickened feeling pooling quickly into her stomach.

She always knew when he was about to disappoint her, to deny her something she'd asked for. It made her skin prickle.

"Just tell me, Chris."

He lifted his face from his hands, though his eyes were still squeezed shut.

"Dammit, Lorelai. God, I'm trying!"

Startled, she shifted away from him.

He sighed. "We're supposed to work this out, right? It's only been a day and already... this is so fucked up."

Lorelai's eyes narrowed, and her mouth solidified into a tight line. She stayed still, waiting as patiently as possible, her tense stomach beginning to quake with nervous energy. This wasn't like him.

Christopher's forehead rested back against the palms of his hands. She surveyed him, took in his shoulders, hanging heavily, straining his neck muscles.

She couldn't see his eyes, so her gaze bore a hole through his fingers.

"She... she's pregnant, Lor."

Oh.

Her mind blanked.

Then reeled.

Seconds passed, threatening to turn into minutes.

"What?" Her eyes were narrowed in disgust but offered nothing further.

Her eyes searched the ground, then his face, for some explanation. Her throat began to burn with epithets, though she stayed completely silent.

"This doesn't have to be a problem," Christopher said quickly, scared shitless by her silence. His fingers and toes were beginning to go numb, and he squeezed his eyes briefly, trying to shake the gin loose from his brain.

"This can go away."

His words grated against her; some affixing themselves to her mind, others sloughing off onto the floor.

"It can, Lorelai. Seriously."

The ticking of the hallway clock was easier to focus on than Christopher's feeble, increasingly slurred assurances.

"But, you know, I know I can talk her into it. If I could just--"

"--Stop. God. Please."

He continued to talk over her, his voice cracking. "I promise, Lorelai! Really. I do. I want to be with you. I wanna marry you, more than anything." He took her hand as gingerly as possible. "I always have. Just me and you, no one else, that's it."

"Chris..." She shook her head slowly both in wonderment and in disappointment.

"This isn't our problem," he interrupted, his voice low. "It doesn't have to be. It's Sherry's, Lor. Not ours." His eyes finally met hers at the last sentence. She tried to worm her hand out of his grasp, but his sweaty palm clasped her firmly, forced her to hold his gaze, to understand and trust him.

Neither of them said anything for several minutes; they simply sat there as the sounds of other guests trickled past downstairs. The clanking of the ice machine. The heavy shutting of doors. The cackling of the woman in the next room. Christopher was watching Lorelai stare blankly down the hall, her face expressionless. Well, it was better than the alternative, he supposed.

It was then that her eyes crinkled in confusion. "What do you mean this isn't our problem?"

He'd gone from dizzy to swirling, his brain feeling like a blinking neon sign, from all the sun and the stress and the thinking.

She wasn't getting it, he realized, and the sour feeling of too much gin in his stomach was coating him with the thick sheen of perspiration.

Christopher was exhausted and agitated and really didn't want to talk about it right now. He just wanted to go back to kissing her, to last night, when she gave him the chance to show her how much he needed her.

He pressed his hand against her thigh, clumsily fingering the smooth fabric of her dress.

"It's not... we're not... we've broken up, Lorelai, like I said, so… this just isn't my concern anymore." Both his hands were now gliding along her legs reassuringly. She pushed them away.

"Not your concern? Shit, Chris! You're going to be a father, don't you realize that?"

"But--" Wait, he knew what he should say. "I already am a father! To Rory, remember?"

"You can't do this, you can't be an asshole," Lorelai muttered. "You can't run away again. Sherry needs you, this baby needs you. Trust me, Christopher," she looked at him pointedly then. "She doesn't want to do this alone. And I can't believe we're even having this discussion." She turned away.

"No, that's not going to happen, Lor." He had grabbed her wrist, squeezing her bracelet into her skin. She tried not to visibly flinch.

"I made you a promise." His voice had turned into a sharp whisper for no other reason than emphasis. "I'm not backing down; I'm not gonna be that guy again. I wanna be with you."  
Just dead air in response.  
"I love you, Lorelai! Please!"

The sudden fury brightening her eyes was terrifying to him. "But you're backing down from a kid, Christopher! That's more important." She wrenched her wrist from his grasp. "God!"

"Not to me, it's not."

"Christopher." Her voice was full of warning, undercut with spite. "Stop."

His breath was quick, his pasty skin a bright crimson. He stared at her menacingly, lips pursed, one hand clutching at his lurching stomach.

"I didn't ask for this," he heaved, nostrils flaring.

"Goddammit, Christopher!" Her words were punctuated with a fist against the wall. "She's having your kid! You did this. You can't let--"

"Well then she can get rid of the fucking thing!" he roared.

Lorelai stopped mid-sentence. Repeated his statement in her head. She stood silently, sizing up the drunken mess of a man at her feet one last time. Then she turned to walk away.

"No. Lorelai, wait." He scrambled hastily to his feet to follow her. She waved her hands through the air dismissively.

Christopher grabbed hold of her shoulder, spinning her around to face him. He saw tears in her eyes and struggled to compose himself, even as the room swayed, so much like the foundering ship he was becoming.

"I can make this go away," he said in a tone as soothing as he could muster. His arm snaked around her waist, pressing his body to hers again, holding her close. Lorelai didn't make a move, just wanting not to cry at her best friend's wedding.

The hand on her shoulder slowly trailed down her side, brushing her breast softly, ending up on her stomach. This was right, he knew it. Goddammit, he had never been so sure of something in his life.

Kissing her neck as gently as he could, he nuzzled into her bare shoulder, exhaling from his tight chest. "Oh, Lorelai," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

His breathing became erratic as he closed his eyes, taking hold of her hips. "I can fix it. I will fix it. I promise."

He dropped loving kisses along the freckles on her skin, trying to coax out her soothing voice, the one she reserved for when things were really bad. The one that made him feel rescued.

"Christopher." The way she said it made his heart drop. Her voice was low. Cold. "Get the hell away from me. Now."

His eyes shot open as she struggled free of his grasp. He tried not to let go, but she was halfway down the long hallway before he realized she was leaving.

"Goddammit, Lorelai!" He caught up to her again, pulling her back toward him by her wrist. This time the bracelet cut into her skin. She let out a quick gasp and tried to yank away, but his grip was firm and strong.

"Please, don't! Lorelai, just let me do this." He was yelling and huffing in her ear, trying to get her to be still for a minute, so he could talk her into trusting him again.

Christopher's head was clouding over, though he could continue to hear himself pleading with her. His own voice was starting to make him nauseous.

Why did she always have to fight him? Why couldn't she just let him be the responsible one for once?

His free hand tightened into a fist as his stomach continued to lurch. He trapped her and pushed her against the wall, using her body to support his weight. All he could smell was alcohol mixed with her perfume. Acidity filled his nose, burning the back of his throat.

He closed his eyes, seeing Sherry's face, as Lorelai dug her nails into him.

His tongue felt sore in his mouth, the taste of bile creeping up his throat. When his vision cleared he could see her face, cringing from pain. It didn't sink in.

"I won't let you run away from me, Lorelai," his voice shook through clenched teeth.

With adrenaline pumping, Lorelai gathered her energy and finally yanked herself out of his grip. Stumbling backwards, she squeezed her eyes shut as Christopher came toward her.

She felt an explosion at the base of her neck as it snapped back against her shoulders. It didn't register immediately that she had been hit; suddenly, all the blood in her body rushed to her head, pooling around her left eye. She felt as if every nerve ending on her face had been pinched, a searing heat seeping through the now-pulsing skin.

Had it not been for the throbbing pain in his fingers mixed with the burning in his stomach, he would have heard her cry out, her voice raw.

He would have seen her trip over her own shoes, would have watched as she kicked them off her feet as she stumbled down the hall and out of sight.

Christopher's body fell forward, crashed his shoulder into the wall, sank down, and hit the floor with a thud. His chest heaved as he noticed the moisture on his hands, a confused look overshadowing his features.

He swiped his coat sleeve at the smear of blood across his fingers, alarmed when he couldn't find a cut on his own skin.


	3. Chapter 3

Luke grunted as the suitcase hurled onto the truck bed with a satisfying thunk. The night was wearing on, and he wanted to get going as soon as possible.

The flickering streetlight caught his eye as he glanced up and down the square, noting the trickle of citizens who remained fancily dressed, despite the hours since the wedding had ended. A few had stopped into his diner to gossip over who was wearing what and who was drunk and who had snuck off with whom. He only half-listened, assuring himself it was only because he felt guilty over missing his friend's wedding. As soon as the stragglers left, he'd grabbed his stuff and flipped the sign.

Luke was doing a damn fine job of pushing her away, both from his diner and from his head. Resisting the urge to meet her eyes; things like that that kept him smug, until he thought of her with Christopher. Then he felt like the only damage he was doing was to himself.

Stars Hollow had become smaller and smaller since the fight, and Luke knew he had to leave before it eventually closed in on him. He needed to distance himself from her, let her have her own life, scrub himself clean of all the crap she put him through.

His hands fiddled with the dollar bills in his wallet. He wouldn't need money, besides gas for the 30 minute drive, but kept the $186 in there anyway. He barely even remembered anymore that there were other pockets in his wallet besides the one for money. Except, of course, the one that had housed the condom his father had bashfully given him back in high school; the leather retained the condom's shape, though the package itself was long gone.

Luke finally turned the key to lock the door; he'd waited all day for that moment, and it felt damn good to be free of everything for awhile. He rarely took time to enjoy the smell of the air at night, but now allowed himself to pause for a bit, now that he was leaving. It smelled clean.

He remained standing in front of his diner door, hand still on the key, key still in the lock, as he stared at the reflection of his truck in the window. He was listing off items in his head one last time. Socks; check. Underwear, t-shirts, pants; check. Fishing pole, tackle-box, soap; che-- Some sort of small reflection in the window scurried by, just past the gazebo. He only saw it for a second before it was gone, but when he turned around to get a better look, he saw someone scampering down the sidewalk 20 yards away. Quietly, he noted, for someone running on concrete.

The shadow slowed to a walk when it arrived safely on the other side of the street and continued away from the diner. A hand was on the face; the head was bent forward. A dress fluttered at the calves. A pony-tail traced thinly down just below the shoulders.

In all honesty, it looked like her. Like Lorelai.

Luke didn't really come up with a reason why, but he began trotting after her. To tell her he'd be out of town for a few days? Not that she'd care. To ask her where her car is? Her daughter? Her purse? Her shoes?

As he neared her retreating silhouette she slowed and finally stopped, remaining turned away from him. One hand was covering her mouth as the other clutched her stomach. Great. He sneered inwardly, assuming she was drunk. The moment she sniffed he regretted his thoughts.

"Lorelai?" He stood behind her tentatively.

"I'm fine, I just--" Her voice was broken. She breathed in audibly.

"Where are your shoes?"

He stepped forward and faced her, her head still bent forward. "Lorelai?"

His hand went to her arm, fingers brushing the skin lightly. Another hand went to her chin and tilted her head upward; stooping just a bit to meet her eyes, though she kept hers lowered. His heart stopped when he realized she'd been crying, and with his hand still under her chin, his thumb brushed at the thick tears trailing down her cheek. She flinched.

His fingers felt damp; slick. In the ever-growing darkness he had to bring his hand closer to see what was wrong and immediately froze. He stared at the shiny red that was quickly becoming sticky, then back at her. Then back at his hand.

When he realized what it was, a powerful shudder pulled through his body.

"Jesus," he whispered, reverence in his voice. His eyes clenched shut and opened again when he heard her muffled sob. Lorelai's face was buried in her hands and she was fighting very hard not to cry.

He looked her over quickly; saw the swelling eye, the small rip on the border of the lid, smears of blood across her cheek, her neck, her dress. Saw her well-pedicured bare feet against the cement.

Saw her shaking as she stood before him, silent and tense.

"Lorelai, who did this?" His voice was surprisingly steady and commanding, his eyes never leaving her face. She looked up and over her shoulder, searching for something; someone.

"Jesus Christ, Lorelai," he whispered again, and she turned back to him. Her eyes met his for an achingly long moment, darted across his face, and rested on the top button of his flannel. Her brows furrowed and she cringed as tears welled up yet again.

Her whisper was almost imperceptible, and he had to lean his head in to hear. He noticed her fingers absently toying with her bracelet. "I have to get out of here."

The breath had rushed out of her lungs when he swooped her up into his arms, making his way quickly back toward his truck. Her head lay on his shoulder. She was tired. And her feet throbbed.

"Where are your shoes, Lorelai?" She pictured them strewn about the hallway of the inn, the carpet underneath, the wallpaper surrounding.

"I don't care."

The press of the window against her face was cold, rather soothing. Leaning the weight of her head against it, she allowed the hum and vibrations of the engine to lull her into a peaceful absent-mindedness.

He left the engine running, air conditioner on, while he went into the pharmacy. She sat in the truck staring blankly out the window at nothing in particular, her mouth open as she listened to her own breathing. The stillness, the incessant quietness, unnerved her as adrenaline shot through to her fingers. Maybe, if she sat perfectly still, her mind would turn off entirely.

Her breath hitched faster, and she could see little clouds of moisture collect on the window next to her mouth. Watching them form, fade away quickly, and form again, over and over. Still she continued to wait, clenching and unclenching her fists, sore from the tension trapped therein.

There are no thoughts, she thought.

Her skin felt stiff where the blood had dried on her face. She wanted to scrape it off; the tears, the blood, the skin, all of it. Her fingernails scratched at her palms in vain.

Lorelai expelled another breath and waited for Luke, pulling her knees to her chest in an effort to stop the jittering. She was running away; she knew that. But she wanted to go faster. Sitting in an idling truck isn't really all that fast.

Her legs shook up and down despite the grip from her arms. She focused on the store-front window, snapping her eyes toward each movement from inside. A sudden, nervous throb in her chest kicked her breathing up higher, and she squeezed her legs to her chest. Her bare feet squeaked against the vinyl of the seat. She jumped at the sound, surprised to hear anything other than her ragged breath.

She switched her focus to the inside of the truck, to the keys dangling from the ignition, to the knob of the dial-radio. But her vision blurred, and the blood rushed past in her ears. A painful wail was caught in her throat though it came out a strangled heave.

She was panting now, chest heaving, every muscle solid. The sound of her breath was all she heard.

In, out.

Rasp, wheeze.

It threatened to knock her unconscious, collapse her to the floor. Her head was becoming lighter as the air scratched at her throat, hot and dry and over and over again.

And then it stopped. Luke had swung open the door, and she was jolted back. Her arms loosened, and she cringed at the ache when her legs straightened out. As he climbed in next to her she laid her head back against the seat, her panting slower. Utterly, utterly exhausted.

She casually wondered what was in the giant paper bag Luke had brought back. But her eyes were closed and her mind was calm and she didn't care. She heard him scoot next to her.

"Lorelai?" His voice rattled and disturbed her cherished silence. "We need to get you cleaned up."

She lifted her head slowly but remained facing forward, careful not to use up too much precious energy. He observed her hands, clenched tightly in her lap, rubbing them roughly with his own until they relaxed.

When she had finally opened her eyes, she watched him out of the corner of her eye with a look that made him pause. He stared back, trying to decipher its significance.

But he couldn't. It wasn't familiar. It was hollow and broken, radiating a quiet edge of anger.

He broke his gaze to reach into his bag, digging around briefly and pulling out a small package of alcohol wipes that crinkled too much upon opening. Lorelai neither broke her gaze nor flinched away, even as he dabbed the very corner of her eye. His brow impossibly stern, jaw clenched.

She sat perfectly still, lips parted and breathing even, her sidelong glare scrutinizing his face. He looked mad at her. His head was tilted inches from hers, his left hand pressed lightly against her jaw. His right imperceptibly swabbing her skin. As her eyes drifted closed, he stopped to watch.

It was obvious that she was trying so hard to be strong. But he could also see that she wanted to be cared for, to stop caring herself.

"Who did this, Lorelai?" His voice was gravelly. Stigmatizing. "Christopher?"

She swallowed hard as he searched her face, knowing that her dropped gaze, her filling eyes and the growing lump in her throat were enough of an answer.

"Goddammit!" His powerful outburst was absorbed quickly by cushioned interior of the truck, though it seemed to reverberate endlessly through her body.

She recoiled, and he regretted saying it immediately. "I'm sorry, I just... God..." He swiped his hand over his face, studied her expression in the dimly-lit store front, passed a critical eye over the wound on her face.

"I, uhh-- I bought a tube of ointment to help with--"

"Let's just go, Luke."

She stopped him with a hand tight around his arm, her calm tone betraying her agitation. It was the first time she'd spoken since he put her in the truck. It made his stomach churn, to hear her voice, that voice he heard every day begging him for coffee and needling him about his personal life, pleading with him in such an unfamiliar, unconvincing tone.

"Please."


	4. Chapter 4

"Okay. You're right. We need to go."

That was it. That was the hand that reached and pushed and toppled him over the edge. And he fell freely, swiftly, into that spiral of anger that he'd managed, thus far, to keep at bay.

Madness. Built upon frustration, interwoven with fear and lust and desire, topped with guilt. Such a remarkable mixture for such a simple man. But there it was, undeniably coursing a network through his veins, embedding itself in his skin, winding itself tightly around vital organs.

And it was her fault. And he couldn't help but feel that it was his fault that he let it be her fault.

This was it, Luke thought, he'd be thrust into hell for sure. It was his responsibility to look out for her, for the people he cared about.

Actually, not even hell. Hell was for the man who took some responsibility for his sins, who owned up to what he'd done and was proud of it. Luke would probably be sent to purgatory, where the aching nothingness was punishment enough. He had nothing to be proud of. Tortured in idleness, with idleness, for idleness.

Quickly he scrunched the paper bag closed with his fists, a crackle that sounded like fire in his hands.

"I'm taking you to a hospital." Luke pushed away from her and jammed the key into the ignition.

"No, Luke." Her voice pierced through the cab, blue and clear against the glaring brightness behind his eyelids. "I need to get outta here. No hospital."

If there were one thing, just one major horrific sin that he could avoid to keep from permanent residence in hell, this was it. He yanked the key out of the ignition and turned back to her.

"Lorelai. I can't…"

He was saying no to her.

His voice dissolved into a frustrated sigh as she shot glares at the keys in his hand. Luke lost his train of thought as he looked at her, huddled and bare and feeble-looking against the door opposite, trying to look menacing.

"Someone needs to look you over," he said quietly. "I can't do that. All I can do is clean you up." He waved cotton swabs in the air as proof. "But you need someone to… I don't know, check… everything." His eyes now swept over her body, an uncomfortable attempt at indicating his meaning.

He exhaled harshly out of frustration with himself.

See, this was exactly what hospitals are for. He only felt equipped to kick that guy's ass. "Does that… make any sense?"

She didn't get it. But when she saw his panicky broach toward the subject, she was taken aback, the brute force of his implications jarring.

That hadn't occurred to her. The panicky feeling flared for a moment, then gave way to something less fleeting; more angry, maybe even resentment. Those feelings were easier to dwell in than the panic.

"He didn't touch me anywhere else." Her voice had dropped cold.  
Luke understood that, even by asking, he had offended her. Implied that she could be taken advantage of, in the most raw and unforgiving of ways.

He didn't want to know. He hated understanding, but his need to help her, to fix it, was winning. "Are you sure?"

His look was pointed, his expression forceful. And her instinct, as ever, was to match that familiar glare of determination in his eyes.

The moment was finding her lacking, though. General levels of fortitude were lacking.

She softened as she touched the fabric of his jeans, just above his knee, just for a moment. Silently, hesitantly asking him to trust her.

He couldn't hold her gaze when her eyes had that pleading look in them, so he nodded and left it at that. Smeared mascara on one side, mottled welt on the other. Decided to give her the benefit of the doubt, that she was past the point of protecting Christopher.

"I'm gonna call Rory." And she had slipped out of the truck unnoticed.

But the thought of a man forcing his way into her…  
He closed his eyes, his field of vision black.

Anxious pulsations of light appeared as he pressed his fingers into them, trying to push the thought from his mind. The harder he pushed, the brighter the lights throbbed, morphing from shape to indefinable shape. From smudge to blot, from blot to her panic-stricken face. From there, her uneasy breath, her chest heaving irregularly, the skin around her eye flaring. Her face rendered less recognizable in its newfound asymmetry. Christopher's fist, clenched tightly, knuckles white. Being pitched at her. On purpose. Aimed at her delicate skin, just shy of her temple.

And that asshole was always taking what he wanted. Luke watched them when Christopher showed up; their eyes were brighter, cheeks rosy, both of them almost giddy. No one else could do that to them, just by being there. He'd never seen anyone make them act like that. Every time the guy shows up, they're like that.

And the day after he leaves, as soon as he's gone, their voices are more somber than he can ever remember them being. But they're still determined to be strong. Especially Rory.

That son of a bitch was never careful with them.

Luke was trying to keep the stream of pictures at bay. His kept his head down, laced his fingers together in his lap.

Christopher was always taking what he wanted. Lorelai's bruises, her countenance, her bare feet - they wouldn't leave Luke's mind.

He could've done whatever he wanted with her. With his tiny pencil dick pushing his way in and out, over and over, dry, searing her skin, stripping her of the hope for a family, of the ghosts of her affection for him. Replacing these with violence, rasps, the sting of humiliation and impotence and the rape of a sacred, deeply harboured wish. His fingers leaving imprints on her wrists, as dark as if he'd rolled them in red ink beforehand. Boring their way into her, their impressions left as a reminder of his presence for days to come. His hands marking her as his, marking her as conquered. With Christopher, the impressions aren't ever quick to fade.

Because the marks would stay, tattooing her with the loss of him, the loss of family portraits and control and Christmas mornings and dignity and father and husband and partner and friend and sanctity and home. Things he'd already stolen from her, things he stole again. Glaring at her with those unashamed eyes that would make her turn away, make her feel dirty, disgusted, alone. Taking what was his while leaving her with nothing but ache. Spilling himself into her as she cried and thrashed and tore and fought for something to focus on, anything to focus on but him, but this, but what he was taking from her, what he had taken from her time and time again. Willing her to submit. Yelling at her to shut the fuck up.

Yeah. It made his stomach churn and split in half about a thousand times over.

Bastard. Fucking asshole of a bastard.

"Still, I'd feel better if a doctor took a look at your eye." She was back at his side before he'd even registered that she was gone.

God, he was making this difficult. "Luke," she attempted a brief smile. "It's not that bad."

Those words swerved his anger toward her. From victimizer to victim. From hate to frustration that she was forgiving him, forgiving Christopher and his behavior and dismissing the entire situation.

She was calm. Nonchalant, the way she said it. This wasn't even Lorelai, and the end of the world must be upon them now for her to be so un-Lorelai.

No, he couldn't possibly be alone in wanting to rip the face off a scrawny, slick-nosed, bomber jacket asshole.

He needed to get this through to her. He was the rational one. For what that was worth.

Wordlessly, he flipped down the visor on the passenger side, tipping her chin up, perhaps with less care than he should have taken. Forcing her to look in the mirror.

Luke watched Lorelai immediately shut her eyes, refusing to see the raw swell of skin ballooning over her brow, cringing as the light off the mirror drove harshly into her face, the unnatural sort of blue color sweeping a gradient of a bruise across her cheekbone.

The glimpse that she did get made her think she looked like David Bowie from the Aladdin Sane cover, a lightening bolt explosion of color streaked down her face. Any other thought but that one and her hands began to tremble.

Lorelai closed her eyes and repeated the words over and over again, willing everything to disappear into a haze of meditation. Spring cleaning the mind. Dematerializing into a quiet little puddle of letters. And glam rock.

Aladdin Sane.

Aladdin Sane.

Aladdin Sane.

A Lad. Insane.

InsaneInsaneInsane.

"Lorelai?"

Right. "What."

He was speaking so softly. "Do you understand what he did to you?"

Stupid Luke. Stupid sane Luke, bringing her back to reality.

Lorelai took a deep breath. Needed to curl up on the seat and pass out. Wake up at the beginning of the day. Do it all differently.

She nodded, because at the end of the day, reality sucked.

"I'm taking you to the hospital now, okay? Actually no, better yet..." He was muttering now, the pace of his words accelerating. "The police. This guy's gotta be arrested, I mean if he's near Rory... Dammit. We gotta go get Rory. Do you know where she is? Where was she when you left? Is she at home--"

"No, Luke stop." She yanked his arm from the steering wheel. Gripped his forearm tightly. She was still a moment, feeling the quick pulse in his arm, watching his rapid breath fog the windows.

"I called her. I told her to stay at Lane's." His arm relaxed beneath her fingers.

"Did you tell her what happened?" Luke's voice was gravelly. Low and intense and it entranced her.

"I did." She spoke quickly now. "I didn't want to but I had to and she hated it and Chris and me for leaving, but I had to." She swallowed the scratchy lamb that had been sitting in her throat.

She released his arm, her own falling to the seat. "But I told her I'd be back before she leaves for D.C. In two weeks." Lorelai took a deep breath and sat up, tucking her legs up onto the seat.

She pictured Rory, baby-thin hair pinned on the sides, blue cotton dress and white Elle sandals, chatting with Barbara Boxer and Dianne Feinstein about human pesticide experiments and forest fire prevention and hating every moment of it because her mother ruined everything because her father had to be Christopher and Christopher had to be an ass.

"Okay, well, then I'm still calling the police." His hand was on the door, and the door was opening, and he was sliding out, and for some reason that was really, really not good.

"No! Luke please don't-" She lunged across the seat and clung to his arm. Pulled and urged and willed it back into the truck. Her heartbeat shot up again.

His head whipped back in her direction once her nails dug through his shirt and into his skin. She half-lay across the bench, gripping his arm and looking up at him from deeply panicked, absolutely desperate eyes. He slid back into his seat reluctantly, nudging himself next to her.

"No." Her voice wobbled low and stern next to his ear. That was enough. For Luke, that was enough to forget the police and the anger and slide his arm around her waist and press her closer and let her chin rest on his shoulder while her breathing slowed. Because that's what she needed. She needed him. And he was right there.

"Can we leave now, please?" Her voice was muffled in his flannel. She let it brush her cheek and smooth over her lips. She let the scruff of his jaw scratch her temple. She willed the rise and fall of her chest to match the rise and fall of his.

And, one aching muscle at a time, she relaxed.

While Luke stared at the floormats.

"Where do you want me to take you?"

"Wherever." She'd muttered her half-response as she slid back to the other side. And rested her head against the window. And was lulled by the hum of the engine.

Lorelai couldn't think about that right now. Right now, her main priority was figuring out how to appease the nagging in her head, the yammering voice that was telling her to just get out, leave, run away. And ignore the cost, the ramifications. The why, the how. Just forget and run.

Except, you probably should think about the where. Because if you don't, you'll end up at the hospital. Which Luke is pulling into now.

She didn't want to have to argue with him. She wasn't sure if she had the energy.

But then again, Lorelai always ended up in control. She'd centered her life on the principle.

Like the time Taylor had restocked the ice cream supply with an off-brand because it was more economical, and she'd begged and pleaded and puppy-dog-eyed her way into convincing him that the other brand is better because the carton is prettier and people buy pretty things no matter how much they cost. And a few days later it was back to Cookies 'n Cream, not a single carton of Kookie Krumble to be found. She considered it one of her greatest triumphs.

Or the time the green-uniformed crew cut guy, came to her door saying that the tree out front needs to be cut down or else its roots are going to grow into the foundation of the house, and she'd told him that if Simon wants to take up residence in her home, then who is she to turn him away?

Or when she was five and her mother organized those inane tea parties for Lorelai and her "friends" because that's what she was supposed to like, but she hated them, and instead of throwing a fit she'd make everyone a nametag bearing something ridiculous like "Kiki Snodgrass" or "Miffy Lou" or "Filberta Lesterina von Sissy Spank." Because at least it was fun for someone.

"I… Listen, Luke. It was nice of you to bring me here but I think I'd rather just… go somewhere else."  
Done. Control regained. Turn around and drive away, my friend, because we are so not going in there.

Luke's palms smoothed his cheeks, eyes squeezed closed. The gravity of the situation was becoming unbearable.

"What," he barked suddenly. "Where. Tell me where, Lorelai, or what you want me to do, or something. I don't know what you need me for, I don't know what I'm supposed to do here." His voice was fractured; he held his face as if his hands could keep his expression from crumbling.

Her fists were clenching again, her head beginning to throb.

Dammitdammitdammitdammit. "I just need to go somewhere! I don't know, Luke- please." She was struggling not to stumble over her words, but every new one that came through her mind and out of her mouth hurt. She needed an ice-pack. And an Aspirin. Maybe a shot of tequila. She didn't want to have to explain anything or do anything or… anything. "Just…" She sighed heavily. "Take me outta here. Wherever."

With that last word, she slumped against the door, hoisting her feet onto the seat. The scratchy blanket that Luke kept behind the bench wrapped itself around her and she closed her eyes, willingly surrendering any decisions to him. He would know where to take her, she thought, as she adjusted her covers and turned off her mind. Luke would take care of it.

Control relinquished.


	5. Chapter 5

Luke pulled off the road and into the driveway, afraid that the crunch of the gravel would wake her up. They squeaked to a stop in front of the cabin just around midnight; she'd drifted off quickly after he'd sped furiously out of the hospital parking lot. His hands took turns gripping the steering wheel, skin blistering, knuckles whitening, as he careened down the highway in a canvas of yellow-dashed blackness. After sneaking up the steps to turn on the lamps and do a quick spider-check, he gingerly nudged Lorelai's knee, then slid into the cab by her bare feet.

"Hey," he tried. "Lorelai?" 

She breathed in sharply through her nose, instantly wide awake. "Luke?" She blinked, then cringed, her hand to her head. "Headache," she muttered unnecessarily. 

"C'mon."

He slid a hand under her back, lifting her out of the truck and shutting the door with his foot. He paused at the top of the landing, first to try to figure out how he was going to get to the handle, then just to stare.

Her eyes were closed, though it looked like her left eye had actually swollen shut. The first few hints of bruise were already showing around the bridge of her nose, as the pooled blood was beginning to lose oxygen. It wouldn't look good in the morning, he judged. Probably wouldn't feel very good, either. It occurred to him that he'd forgotten ice packs at the pharmacy.

Luke was beginning to regret bringing her here. He wasn't prepared; he didn't have enough bandages, not even a VCR so she could keep busy while she healed. He knew how she felt, on some small scale, when she said that she just needed to leave. And this was where he'd want to be taken to escape. And that had been the extent of the thought process.

"Luke?"

"Hm?"

Still groggy, she tried to open her eyes, but only was successful on the right side. The sight of her lying in his arms, feebly struggling to open her swollen eye, made his heart ache.

"Where are we?"

"Can you stand okay?" He asked gently. He was tired, and he was sure she was tired. And hungry, because she was always hungry.

She responded with her body, hooking an arm around his neck as he lowered her to the ground and opened the door. 

"Bantam Lake. This is, ah… my family's old cabin." He held it open for her and watched her walk inside, suddenly embarrassed.

Lorelai squinted around the room, sleep still clouding her thoughts. The place was simply furnished, dimly lit, very clean. Very Luke. "This is where you brought me?" she asked, confused.

"I just thought…" God, this was a bad idea. "I thought when you said you wanted to get away…" What, that you wanted to be extricated from civilization?

She nodded as if she understood, wringing her hands. "No, this is fine. But… do you have… um." She was having trouble focusing, but he'd always anticipated her thoughts.

"Yes! Here."

He led her to a small room and sat her down on the bed, running back and sorting through his duffel bag and coming up with socks, boxers and a warm flannel.

"I'm just gonna go for a walk," he said. "I'll be back after you change and I'll help with your… uh…" he motioned circles around his eye and headed for the door. "I'll be back."

"Hey Luke?"

He paused. He had his hands pressed together in front of him, an eager expression on his face. She softened, realizing how much he reacted to her voice, her expressions, her in general. And then she felt guilty.

"I just…" The tears were in her eyes again, his shoulders physically sagging at the vision.

"Thanks," she choked.

This was the thing. It was still Lorelai, the woman always so strong, the epitome of everything vibrant and good-natured, utterly confident in her carriage; here, now, a heart-rending expression on her face, her body hunched over, arms protectively crossed over her stomach. Beaten, looking lost and out of place.

And there was something about seeing her in that cabin, the place Luke felt he belonged. Where his family had spent summers together, where he'd first learned to be like his father. Growing up, life's lessons handed down over the dry salami sandwiches in the boat, fishing until sunset. Coming back here, to the room she was recoiled in now, building forts under the bed.

So Luke crossed the room, sweeping her up in a fierce, protective embrace. It was almost reflexive; it had to have been, or else he would've talked himself out of it. She's too fragile, or she's been through too much, or just… we don't hug. It's Lorelai. 

But there it was, and she hugged him back, laughing tearfully into his shoulder from the shock of it. But also the familiarity. Because it's Luke.

He released her, looking down sort of awkwardly, and patted the pile of his neatly folded clothes sitting next to her. "You get changed, I'm gonna go."

Lorelai knew somehow, instinctively, that he wanted to say something more. That way his chest stilled when he was trying to figure out the first word he'd say. The way he looked through her rather than at her because he was organizing and calculating and arranging in his head. They stared at each other for a long moment, the melancholy tension thick between them, ready, eager, willing to be acknowledged.

But he left quickly, wordlessly, and she heard him trotting away from the cabin the second she dropped her gaze.

She was able to take a hot shower, surprisingly enough- heat, soap, running water, everything. He wasn't so impractical. She was also able to avoid looking in the mirror, at any part of her body, and really only did so fleetingly when the mirror was covered in steam. 

She sat on the bathroom floor wrapped in a towel, covered in droplets of water that slid quickly downward with each of her movements. Until she ceased moving altogether and perched herself upright, leaning against the wall, staring at her feet. The bottoms were red and swollen and ached from too much bare contact. She balanced herself with her hands on the floor beside her while she rubbed and tangled her feet in the old, shaggy rug.

The steam from the mirror was unsympathetic as she pulled herself up and came face to face with a blue and red and puffy version of what she'd thought she probably looked like. It stared back at her, that reflection in the mirror, long and hard. It told her she'd lost. 

She'd lost.

You lose.

Control and trust and independence.

Gone, and now you have to run away and hide until you've healed because no one would think of you the same if they knew.

But she was fine with that. She didn't care; she'd stopped caring, because there were too many emotions to feel right now, and she'd decided that the solution was to not feel any.

So when she slipped Luke's flannel shirt over her moist skin, stepped into his boxers, padded her feet with his thick socks, she barely registered how much had already been healed.

He could smell the lake before he could see it. That fishy smell, and after he'd trotted a few steps more, he sat on the ground where the water shimmered behind the trees.

His knees were pulled up so he could rest his forehead against them, hands steadying himself on the grass on either side. He'd been to the lake a thousand times, but never with such a nauseated feeling. Except that time Liz made him eat the really old can of tuna Mom had found in the cupboards. He'd thrown up for three days.

And he was confused, too. He was supposed to be mad at Lorelai, but he'd whisked her away in a single moment of panic. Luke knew she was asking him for help, but she kept looking at him with disdain.

And he still had no idea what the hell had happened.

He couldn't decide if it were incredibly unfair to him that she wouldn't tell, or if it were incredibly selfish of him to want to know. One of these extremes, he'd decided. But she had asked him to take her away; he'd brought her here, he was taking care of her. He deserved to know, dammit. 

So he'd ask when he got back. There'd be a discussion, everything would be explained and answered, a plan would be hashed out. He knew what he'd say, how he'd say it, what to say back. The whole silence thing was frustrating.

But this was who he was. This was Luke. He fixed rooftops for free. He lent money without reservation. He forgave customers with a wave of his hand when their wallets turned up short. After Stevie Collins's dad left, Luke kept an eye on him every day for a month after school, feeding him cherry Cokes and french fries, swapping baseball cards until his mother picked him up after her second job.

And he did it all without being asked; without wanting something in return.

But this is Lorelai. It shouldn't be any different.

But it is different. Because it's Lorelai.

Lorelai.

Luke swatted away a mosquito. He tried picturing Christopher. Tried imagining where he'd be, which smug expression he'd have on, whom he'd be with. He wanted to know that Rory was okay and made a mental note to ask Lorelai again. He wanted to know that Christopher was far, far away but not so far that he'd be unable to find him when the time came. He wanted Lorelai to tell him what happened because it was sickening him to not know.

So, this time, he did want something in return.

He wanted to hold her and soothe her and kiss her and touch her, not just because he'd always wanted that, but because he felt like she might need it, too, maybe for different reasons.

But no, not now, not while she was broken and vulnerable. And trusting him to put her back together.

And he really wanted to get Christopher out of his head, cocky and thin and spoiled, taunting him, egging him on with a Hartford grin and Italian leather shoes. So he mentally punched him. Again. And again and again, eyes clenched shut, until he saw nothing but a white haze behind his eyelids.

He glanced down at his fist, brushing off the dirt and blades of grass, torn between standing and lying flat on his back. The thought of killing that guy made him anxious, and he couldn't figure out where to put all that energy.

She needs to be taken care of, he thought.

He stood up, turned toward the cabin, and headed back.

Lorelai pulled her head out of the fridge when the door creaked open from the other room. She'd been mentally singing along to "Cracked Actor," stuck in her head from the Bowie moment she'd had earlier.

His footsteps landed heavily on the wooden floor, slow and hesitant.

Crack, baby, crack. She straightened, glared at the complete emptiness of the refrigerator, and swiftly slammed it shut.

"I have food in the truck." He stood in the doorway to the kitchen, hands in his back pockets, awaiting her cue.

Her arms were crossed in front of her chest. Her lips pursed into a tight line. She stared at his shoes. "Turkey burgers? Leaf lettuce and carrots?"

He made no response other than shifting his eyes away, face falling out of disappointment. He turned and huffed out the front door again.

Smack, baby, smack.

She sat herself gingerly at the kitchen table, resting her chin on her hand, wincing and pulling away when her fingertips brushed her swollen eye. Sighing, she settled back into the chair, eyeing the wardrobe she'd slipped into after he'd left. She was wearing Luke's boxers, the ones he used as underwear. Of course, she was wearing panties underneath, but she'd hazard a guess that Luke doesn't.

She tried to remember her phone call to Rory, made under a haze of panic and regret and Luke-pity. She faintly recalled Rory's meek Bambi-voice as she tried deciphering her mother's cryptic use of the words "incident" and "out of town" and "I'm fine but go to Lane's until I get back and stay away from your father and I'll call you again tonight I promise." Not the best choice of words, but choice had been a luxury at that moment.

Stupid Christopher.

Stupid Chris. Ludicrous...

LudiChris.

Dammit.

She laid her head on the table. Closed her eyes.

LukeNotChris.

But Luke was still mad at her. He was being sweet now, but he was. As far as she knew. He was still mad that she'd yelled and cast blame and banished him to hell, and no amount of completely unashamed pleading and flirting would change that. Not this time, anyway.

"I have Ranch dressing, too." His voice entered the kitchen. She jerked her eyes open but remained slumped over the table facing away. "You know, to slather your turkey burger, lettuce, and carrots with."

She pulled herself upright, rested her chin on her fist. Angled the left side of her face away from him. She could still see him though, peripherally emptying the giant red Coleman cooler of packaged things. Cans. Small boxes. Little bags of colored stuff that could quite possibly be vegetables. And beer, which she eyed curiously.

Without a glance back, he picked up one of those bottles and landed it softly in front of her. She watched it sitting there, tall and proud and beaming. The corner of the label folded under itself. The shiny brown glass collecting condensation that rolled downward and pooled onto the table. She was pretty sure that if she sat there long enough and still enough the bottle would blink first.

Luke turned around to reach for the bag from the pharmacy and stopped when he caught sight of her sitting motionless, moving again after she reached for the beer, twisting the cap off in a singular impressive grip of her hand. He dug around inside the bag, every now and then pulling things out and setting them on the table: toothbrush, deodorant, those facial cleansing wipes that he figured every woman used, travel-sized hairbrush, her shampoo, Aspirin, Oreos.

She picked up the bottle of shampoo. "How did you know to get this?"

He turned and glanced, then faced away from her. "Because. I'm practically in your shower more than you are. You plug up the drain every other day and make me come snake it; I know what kind of shampoo you use."

She was embarrassed somehow, that he knew such intimate details about her. Flattered just a little, definitely surprised.

"But how did you know to get me shampoo in the first place?"

He seemed uneasy, pausing and shifting where he stood. The words came out slowly. "Well, I didn't think you'd want to go back to your house tonight, and I wasn't really sure what happened, and so I figured you and Rory might want to stay... somewhere else. Just for the night. And you might want your shampoo there. In the morning."

"Somewhere else? What, like a hotel?"

His eyes avoided hers. "Yeah. Like a hotel."

Luke turned back toward the warming stove, waiting for the crinkling of a cookie bag. It came a moment later.

She munched quietly while he cooked and boiled and baked whatever it was that smelled so... un-diner-like.

Luke knew where to start. He had all his questions lined up, all the things he wanted to know about. Exactly what to say. But she wasn't giving him any invitation to do so.

A paper plate slid cautiously onto the table in front of her, pushing away what remained of the bag of Oreos. A napkin appeared to her right; a fork on top. Luke at the table across from her.

"So." She looked down her nose at the food. The "food," she air-quoted in her head. "Tell me about the lake."

"Huh?" Luke's eyes shot up into hers. "Oh, well uh, we used to come here every summer. Liz and me and my mom and dad." He didn't want to talk about the stupid lake.

She rolled a baby carrot back and forth across the plate, keeping her eyes down.

"The trout fishing is excellent around this time of year."

Wow. Nice one.

"It's a good place to, you know, get away. From things."

She poked at the carrot. 

"Lorelai?"

Poke.

There were two things that Luke was going to talk about. But neither of them were what she hoped he would say, what she knew he wouldn't.

"Yeah?" She muttered.

"Will you tell me what happened?" There we go. Smooth.

She shoved the carrot into her mouth and cringed. "Ugh. I can't believe you eat this stuff." She poked some more. Shoved another carrot in.

"Where's Christopher now?"

"Smother it in enough Ranch and it's not so bad, I guess, but… man."

"Lorelai!"

"What, Luke!" She snapped her head up at him. Black eye wringing his stomach. "I don't want to talk about it!"

"Well I do!" So not how this was supposed to go.

"Well that's too bad. It's too bad, and it's not fair that we only talk about what you want."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Lorelai set her fork down, placing her hands in her lap. She took a moment to chew and swallow. She looked up at him, the futile, pleading expression seeping back.

And then he got it. "Is this about the apology?" She was silent. "Lorelai... I told you. Everything's fine. We're fine."

"No, Luke, it's not fine. Just because you say it's fine doesn't mean it's fine."

"Yes it does."

"No it doesn't!"

"Yes. It does."

"No--" She sighed, her gaze dropping to his own plate of untouched food. "There's a difference between just saying something and actually meaning it."

"I can't believe this. This is seriously what you're worrying about right now?"  
"Yes!"  
He sighed, somewhere between utterly exasperated and completely exhausted by her. "Well... how do you know I don't mean it?"

"Because I know. I know you. And I know the difference between when you're saying something to humor me or pacify me or make me shut up and when you're actually being sincere, Luke. I know."

He toyed angrily with the lettuce. Folding and stabbing it until it was a thick cube at the end of his fork.

"I'm sorry, Luke. I've been sorry, and I really wish you'd tell me what else I need to do because it kills me knowing that there's something I can do but can't because you won't tell me what it is."

He couldn't look up at her. There she was, with a broken eye courtesy of the creep who probably wouldn't have even been around had it not been for him and his nephew and his pushing of his nephew to be friends with Rory who he'd hurt which made Lorelai mad which made him mad which made her apologize as she sat across from him in pain and in hiding and probably scared as hell.

Jackass.

"I forgave you a long time ago."

She swirled the Ranch around her plate, zig-zagging and curling his words with the prongs of her fork.

"I wasn't even mad. I was just..." 

She looked up expectantly, eyebrows raised, waiting.

"I deserved what you said. You never needed to apologize."

Lorelai stared back in bewilderment. "So why'd you make me go through all that?"

He didn't have an explanation. Not one that he could share. So he just shook his head. "I don't know. But I'm sorry." He spoke to his plate.

She leaned back into her chair, quiet and contemplative and tired and realizing just how ridiculous the goddamn fight had been in the first place.

She shoved a whole Oreo into her mouth. "I'm going to bed," she garbled through the cookie, leaving the table, Luke-socked feet padding across the floor.

"Lorelai..." he followed anxiously, standing behind her as she leaned over the bed, arranging the blankets and sheets and pillows. She didn't turn.

He pressed on, though he was afraid of all the things she could be feeling at the moment. "Lorelai, please."

He touched her arm lightly.

She wasn't sure then if he was apologizing for the fight or asking her to explain her eye, but his touch was hesitant and kind. She paused.

Releasing her uneasy breath and counting to ten, she succumbed to the gentle pressure Luke was placing on her shoulder.

As she turned, he carefully studied her face, looking for a way into her thoughts; his gaze passed over her chewed lip, tense brow and nervous eyes.

He imagined he was wearing a similar expression, one of forlorn anxiety.

Luke grazed the tips of his fingers across her cheek just beneath the swollen skin and exhaled. He didn't know what to do. This was exhausting, hovering between such intense rage and deep regret, tenderness and pity.

So he leaned in, pressing his lips to the top of her head. Only wanting to soothe her. Needing to soothe himself.

But she suddenly flinched, recoiling, not wanting to be touched. Cringing at another person's breath on her skin. Craving incredibly vast, immeasurable amounts of space between her and the next living thing.

Luke looked down immediately, suddenly embarassed by the intimacy in his gesture.

She didn't know how tell him that she hadn't quite regained control of her reactions yet. Her body was ultimately in charge, dictating her movements. Shaking hands, pounding heart, flinching eyes. Tenderness had suddenly become foreign. But she didn't want that, she didn't want her body to have control over her mind. And in her mind she knew that what she wanted, more than anything, was to curl up in his arms, take one last deep, conscious breath and fall fast asleep.

Lorelai stared at him, standing in front of him, knowing full well that he was seeing her differently now. Understanding that he would never be able to see her the same way again. If it were anyone else-- someone with whom she had a good handle on their perception of her-- she would've had little issue in asking for what she really wanted. She would've folding herself up into him, leaned her head into his chest and let him console her, allow his warmth seep into her mind and lull her to sleep.

Her voice scraped itself out of her throat. "I'm sorry, Luke."

He nodded, then slowly reached toward her, very gingerly taking hold of her frame. And though she jumped slightly in his arms, she didn't remove herself.


	6. Chapter 6

Luke leaned in and reached behind her, hand still on her waist, and pulled the chain on the lamp. The dusty, dull bulb flickered from neglect and disuse. No one had been in Liz's room in a long time.

Yellow tinged the space around them, and his eyes focused on the hands that fingered delicately at his shirt buttons, on the eyes cast downward, on the hair that fell forward and framed her face. He was certain that she was asking for something.

He lifted her chin for the third time that night, peering down his nose at her, and for the third time winced at the strikingly discolored skin. But the first time, it was an angry bleeding red color. This had receded into a rosy pink, the arc under her eye taking on a hazy sort of blue. But a thick, deep blue. A blue so dark it sharpened the lighter shades of blue in her eyes.

Lorelai stared back at him, now shy and embarrassed and self-conscious. In her face, in her situation.

So instead, she studied his arms wrapped loosely around her waist. She watched his chest rise and fall, quickly picking up speed. She noticed his Adam's apple bob up and down once. She realized how soft his lips were once you got close enough to see. She saw his eyes staring straight back at her, no longer examining her bruises, but looking into her eyes.

And in that look, she found overwhelming pity.

She opened her mouth to speak, stuttering and pausing for just a moment. "I need to call Rory."

And she watched as her hips shifted away from his.

"You do have a phone, right?" She buzzed about the room anxiously. "I mean, I know this is all secluded-special-private-cabin place but not to, like, a Deliverance sort of degree, right?"

He didn't respond, the pity in his eyes having been replaced with confusion and hurt.

She continued on, oblivious. "I mean, have you ever seen that movie? I swear, horrible, horrible nightmares. For weeks." She stopped next to the mahogany bureau. "Crap, why'd I have to bring that up? Now I'll be freaked out all night. Toothless six-toed banjo boy singing in my head." She made her way to the kitchen.

"Lorelai--"

"And not that I'd not expect you to have a phone, it's just that it seems like you probably don't come here that often, and when you do you probably wouldn't want to be doing phone-type things because even normal-everyday-Luke isn't exactly fond of phones, so I was only guessing at how cabin-Luke would feel about communication with the outside world--"

"Lorelai..."

"And I'd promised Rory I'd call her again tonight even though I didn't know from where I'd be calling, and even if I had known I really wasn't in any frame of mind to form rational thoughts about whether not a phone would be accessible to me--"

"Lorelai. Stop."

"What? Why? What's wrong?"

He leaned against the door frame of the kitchen, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Phone's on the wall by the fridge."

"Oh." She walked over to where it perched, brown and rotarized and cord-dangling. "And it works?"

"It works."

"And... you have phone service out here?"

"I had it turned on before I left. In case the diner burned down and I didn't have to come back for a few more weeks."

She looked down and furrowed her brows, remembering that Luke was on his way here by himself when he'd found her. By himself, for a few weeks, and he hadn't bothered to tell her. 

"So... um, can I..." She jabbed her thumb toward the phone.

"Yeah, sure. Call Rory. Talk as long as you need to." He was picking up on her hesitation again. "I'm gonna go make up one of the other beds."

She nodded at him once before he turned and disappeared. With the sharp wringing returning quickly to her stomach, she snatched the receiver off the wall.

A full hour later, Rory had been called, as well as Mia and Michel. The latter two for the sake of a vaguely detailed emergency hiatus from work.

With Rory, however, details needed to be explained. Replaying the day in Lorelai's head was difficult enough, but relaying it to her daughter was excruciating. Excruciating, but necessary.

Rory had been worried all evening when she couldn't find her mom, alarmed when she found her purse still at the inn, frightened when she found her shoes in the hallway, and utterly sick by the time her mom finally called.

And she'd cried, begging Lorelai to let her stay at the cabin too.

Rory was quickly assured, however, that her mother was fine; that she'd only be there for a few days. A week at best. And that Rory was to go to DC. That was the final word, and once Lorelai had soothed her daughter with a voice that was entirely too calm to be her own, Rory had informed her that Christopher wasn't anywhere to be found. That his hotel room was empty; his car was gone.

Lorelai breathed a sigh of relief. Relief both physical and emotional.

He wasn't near Rory.

Not knowing where he was, however, the question of what he'd decided to do after she'd run, perched heavily at the back of her skull.

She unconsciously gripped the edge of the kitchen sink; as she peered past her reflection and out into the blanket darkness, as she smelled once again the alcohol on his breath, felt the warm, sticky shirt that clung to his chest, felt her back pressed up against the wall. It made her eye throb and her wrist itch.

It made her wish she could go back and do everything differently. Not necessarily with Christopher, not anymore. He was just the last viable relationship left for her, one that had been sitting in the back of her mind for years, and was presently being drowned in an ungodly dose of pity and guilt. And Oreos.

Should there have been any solution to repair what damage had been brought to her relationship with Luke, she surely couldn't find it. First, the fight over Rory's accident: that had cost her flirting rights and a worthy sparring partner. Second, the blow to her face that had left her stuttering and pathetic: that had cost the strong, independent vision she hoped Luke had of her. And third of all, the fact that another guy had done it: that had cost the "I'm not still hung up on anyone else and am completely available" vibe she thought she'd been sending.

Because it was true.

Except there was no way to convince anyone otherwise. There was no way to say, "Yeah, I was planning on spending the rest of my life with Chris, but it didn't mean anything, I swear." Even though that was true too. There was no way to say, "It wasn't the man that I wanted, it was the relationship," without arguing that the same could be said if she'd chosen Luke.

But that wasn't true.

She'd been scratching her wrist when she turned around to see Luke walking into the kitchen, looking at her hesitantly, as though he should tread lightly around the five-foot radius he'd assumed she'd been constructing. A wall, maybe a chain-linked fence. Barbed wire. Electric railings.

"I'm done with the phone." Her eyes met his for a second then darted away, settling on the waistband of his sweatpants.

He nodded his head, trying to read something in her voice. "Okay." His own eyes anxiously surveyed her face, her loose-fitting flannel shirt, the sleeves that flapped gently over her hands as she stood there scratching.

A minute ticked by, and they remained standing motionless in the kitchen. The faucet dripped. Scratch. A floorboard creaked. Scratch scratch.

"What's wrong?" He expelled his breath, doing away with the unnerving silence. He stepped closer to her, taking her wrist in his hand, pushing the sleeve up on her arm.

His swiftness caught her off guard, giving her no time to pull away. No time to hide her arm behind her back. No time to say, "Nothing, it's fine," and distract him with evasive verbiage. He was holding her wrist and staring at red scratches, and she thought she couldn't get more pathetic.

He calmly breathed through his nose, thumbing the curled skin at the ends of each scrape. She winced, and he looked up at her questioningly, patiently, as she stared back down at her exposed skin.

Control... explain... divert...

"It's nothing... I just... The bracelet I was wearing cut into--" 

"Christopher did this."

And give in.

"Yeah," she admitted. She braced herself for Luke-anger, a Luke-rant, at least a Luke-pace around the kitchen. But he stood there, still, gently holding her wrist in his hand, staring at her while she stared at the cuts.

And after she'd alternately planned what she would do and what she would let Luke do, she closed her eyes and ultimately did nothing. She was sick of dealing with this and knew full well that Luke wasn't. Because he'd brought her here.

So she made none of her carefully crafted objections as he slowly pulled the bunched sleeve back down over her arm and then began rolling the cuff all the way up past her elbow. He reached for her other hand, lifting it closer to his face, and let fall back to her side when he found it undamaged. He stepped closer again, the top of her head just below his nose, and ran his fingers up her forearm.

"Let me fix this. " He spoke just above her ear, soft and humming, and she was sure she involuntarily nodded her head. Without removing his grip he leaned over and reached for the pharmacy bag, for the second time pulling out an alcohol wipe, a cotton swab, the tube of ointment, a box of Band-Aids. He repositioned himself in front of her again, her forehead almost resting against his chest, but not quite.

And when the alcohol made contact with the edge of her skin she gasped and pulled back from him.

"I'm sorry. " He released her wrist.

"No, it's fine, it's just..." She held it back up to him, pleading. Almost. "Keep going."

He took her hand again, and she stepped back in front of him, under his chin. He continued swabbing her skin tentatively, and Lorelai counted each touch simply to have something other than the goddamn crickets to focus on. Or the chest pressed against her knuckles. Or the breathing in her ear.

Seven, eight.

Chirp.

Nine. 

Breathe...

And she didn't move, even though Luke knew it was burning her. So when he finished he held her wound up to his face and exhaled warm breath over it gently.

She remained still, even when he spread the ointment across the cuts with his finger. She didn't move when he pressed three bandages over her wrist. She didn't move when he stood there for a moment apparently doing nothing while he tried not to notice the smell of his shampoo in her hair. And she remained still despite the tear that had rolled off her cheek and landed in the middle of her arm.

Not now.

And there was just enough time for Luke to see it sitting there before her flanneled hand lay itself on top of the moist spot, pulling back from his grasp.

His hands cupped the corners of her shoulders, and he pulled so that her forehead finally met his chest. He breathed as though he hadn't over the past four minutes.

She shifted her weight. A floorboard creaked.

His hands smoothed over her shoulders. Soothing.

But she broke the silence nonetheless, speaking into his chest. "I'm fine, Luke, I'm just really tired." Yet she didn't move, as though physical control had been relinquished as well.  
Perfectly fine.

"Okay. Come on." He pulled her by her undamaged hand back to the bed she'd arranged for herself. He stepped back and watched her unroll her sleeve, climb in under the sheets, pull on the lamp chain, and wrap herself snugly, effortlessly, in what had been his own blankets for years.

Luke glanced back one last time at the balled shadow in the bed before flicking off the kitchen light, heading toward his old bedroom. Convincing himself she was fine. Ridding his mind of fists and bandages and pleading voices. Eager to turn his mind over to blankness.


	7. Chapter 7

The seconds slid by on the wall clock in front of him. And though he felt thoroughly exhausted, his eyelids refused to close with that heavy, pitch-black finality he craved.

His eyes drifting closed and snapping back open, he glanced again through the half-open door of his bedroom, waiting for something concrete to give him another excuse.

He wanted more than anything to go check on her; his ears were attuned to the creak of the floorboards, or maybe a muffled sob, or something. Her voice calling his name.

But no, just that infuriatingly steady silence.

Sitting halfway up, he listened intently, idly scratching his calf. He considered going for a walk, or doing push-ups, or anything that would tire him out, at least to be able to stop worrying over her so incessantly.

Maybe he could make a lanyard; there was still a drawer in the kitchen full of half-finished ones from Liz.

He'd been lying in bed like this for hours. Approximately two and a half hours, the clock told him. He glanced outside his window, checked to see if the moon was still stubbornly hanging in the sky. The sooner she was awake, the sooner he could talk to her again.

Using his stomach muscles to pull himself up, he righted himself and shuffled quietly to the door. Fetch some water.

On his way to the little tiled kitchenette, he paused by her room, ever so briefly, and peered into the darkness.

Nothing.

Continuing down the hall, he filled a glass from the tap and squeaked by as quietly as he could, again stopping in front of her half-open door. Silence.

And then, "What, Luke?" Her sharp voice came from inside.

Caught. Startled, but managing a grip on his water, he searched for her figure in the darkness. It sounded like she was in the back corner of the room, but his eyes refused to adjust quickly enough.

Luke gripped the door frame sheepishly. "Sorry," he mumbled at the floor.

She sniffled and sighed, wiping her nose. "It's fine." She sounded exasperated. "You can come in if you want to."

Glancing down at the water at his hand, he offered her the glass. "Here."

She arched her body upward, pulling down the cord to lift the blinds. The outline of the room became clear, illuminated with faint moonlight. 

"Thanks," she said into the cup, sipping and setting it down. Lorelai was sitting on the bed, her back up against the corner of the room, huddled with the quilt around her shoulders. 

"Need Kleenex?"

"Yes, please." 

Reaching into one of the closets in her room, he pulled out an old, unopened box and set it beside her.

"Anything else?"

She held her palms to her eyes, trying to physically stop the flow of tears. "Why did you keep coming by here?"

"I didn't," he said quickly.

"Luke, you've walked past my room at least a hundred times tonight."

He grunted, glad she couldn't see well enough to distinguish the color in his face. "Well, you might have needed something."

"I didn't."

There was an awkward silence, and Luke decided it counted as an invitation. He squeaked onto the edge of the mattress with her.

"You needed tissues," he said, an I-told-you-so in his voice.

She was blowing her nose as he said it and gave a half-hearted laugh.

There was silence for some time after that. A wall clock identical to his hung across from her bed, ticking by the same seconds, which seemed to have sped up considerably. Luke picked at the loose thread at the bottom of his t-shirt, waiting for her to kick him out.

Instead, she swiveled and turned, her back to the mattress, her head in his lap. She stared up at him for a moment, and he down at her, until she found the position too intimate. Flipping onto her side, her left temple to his left thigh, and bunched the fabric of his sweatpants in her fists. Feeling like crying again.

And when he began stroking her hair softly, tucking and organizing her errant curls behind her ear, she did.

He soothed her as best he could, though each sniffly hiccup only served to tighten the vise in his chest. "It's okay," he murmured, feeling an incomprehensible, overwhelming mixture of anger and sadness. She, the girl who never suffered, who always bore her burden with a certain light-hearted grace. Inconsolable.

She wasn't exactly crying audibly, but the tears slipping down her cheeks were soaking through the cotton she was pressed against, dampening his skin.

It was fifteen or twenty minutes, he imagined, before she began to calm down. He ran his fingers through her hair again, waiting patiently for her to fall asleep, for her breathing to slow, for the opportunity to lie beside her.

Instead, much to his surprise, she cleared her throat and adjusted herself onto her back, her weight still bearing on him.

Looking up at him with clear, though moist, eyes, she began speaking in a painfully soft voice.

"We decided..." Pause.

"..."

Try again.

"Okay." Sigh. "Christopher and I decided we were going to be together."

So that's where she was going with this. He removed his hands from her completely.

"Finally, you know? We were going to be together, after so many years. Told Rory and everything, that this was it."

After another deep breath, Lorelai continued speaking, her words coming at an increasingly steady clip.

"And then... um, today, he got a call from his girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend or whatever, saying that she was actually, uh, pregnant. And he was drunk, I mean really drunk, and we got in a fight, like a bad fight, about what he should do with... his girlfriend and the pregnancy and all that, you know like the baby and everything, and then he... got physical, I guess, or whatever, and I ran out. And then you saw me."

Luke didn't move.

These were details he'd wanted to hear so badly, to find out exactly what had happened to her, find out how he could better resolve the situation, and now he couldn't bear to listen. 

So instead, he reached for her hand, which was balled in a fist on her stomach. Luke loosened her grip and slid his thumb under her palm, squeezing gently. It was the only thing he could think to offer.

"He's out of your life for good?" Luke's fear of sounding overeager, as if this hadn't been the first and last question in his mind, manifested itself in a pubescent falter.

She reached down and pulled the quilt up over her head, burying her face with it and trying to suppress the overwhelming, hopefully momentary, impulse to scream. Instead she opened her mouth, bit down on the blanket and expelled all the breath left in her lungs. It felt like she was channeling a panel from Cathy, tearing her two-dimensional hair out, frozen droplets of angst poised above her head.

She stuttered for a moment before actually getting out the words, "I have no idea."

Luke, always the paper tiger, was beginning to resent his futility with regard to her decisions. 

"Because of Rory?"

"Yeah."  
The potential for projectile anger was increasing by the second. "Look," he started. "There is no reason whatsoever for you to have any further contact this guy. I mean, for God's sake, get a restraining order, or-- or-- hire a hitman or something, because this guy shouldn't even be breathing right now."

"Rory knows what happened," she responded quietly. "She can make her own decisions. I mean, I would hope she's smart enough to know not to ever even think about him again-- but you know, in the future, once she gets older and gets married and... I just want her to have the option of sending him a wedding announcement, at least, or using the blender he gets her or whatever. It's her choice, Luke."

Without warning, he was lifting her by the shoulder blades and sliding himself off the bed. Luke marched straight into his room and slammed the door, the wooden furniture in Lorelai's room trembling in the aftershock.

His sudden movements had startled her, and she rubbed her sternum absent-mindedly in an effort to ease the thudding against her rib cage.

The paint was peeling on the ceiling.

Sheets a bit musty.

Little sprigs of wildflowers on the wallpaper.

Don't cry.

She heard him open the door to the other room just as forcefully as he'd closed it. His strides were long as he walked right up to where she was lying, jamming a finger in her face.

"Oh, yeah? And what if he does this to Rory?"

She closed her eyes, hearing his receding footsteps. Slam.

"Luke!"

She jumped up after him, ignoring the soreness in her body, and flung open his door. He was pacing back and forth in his room.  
"You don't understand the situation, okay? And you have no right to question my judgment. I know Christopher better than he knows himself, he would never do anything to hurt Rory."

He glared at her, holding back a sneer. "Then how come, seeing as you know him so goddamn well, you didn't see this coming?"  
She stared at him, wishing she hadn't set herself up for that.

Knowing she had no recourse, he continued. "I know exactly what's going to happen. You'll ignore him for awhile, then something or someone crappy will come along and you'll get all swept up in all that bullshit again-- the thought of you guys being a family, of having a happy ending to all the crap you two have been through together."

"No, I--"

"And I'm sure it's tempting, it's a nice thought that Rory could have a dad around to give her... whatever her dad could give her, baseball tips or dictionaries or whatever, but I'm just waiting." His voice dropped. "I'm just waiting for you to realize that Rory having a dad doesn't necessarily have to mean Christopher. That jackass has never done her any good, and you know it."

His accusatory finger dropped to his side and he retreated, sitting back down on the bed.

Lorelai, her hands upturned on her waist, crossed the room and joined him. A calm, sympathetic, insistent hand went to his knee.  
"I understand that Rory doesn't necessarily need Christopher in her life to have a father, Luke. I get that. But he's... he's a part of her. Whether I can help that or not, he's half the reason she exists and nothing can change that."

He continued to stare at his hands, clasped across his lap.  
"Well, Chris is about a third of the reason, actually. I'm another third. The rest of the responsibility might be shouldered by Jose Cuervo."

His lack of response, or even faint hint of acknowledgment, only widened the chasm.

"And as for he and I-- you know."

"Getting back together," he supplied.

"Yes. Right, getting back together. It's out of the question, completely. I mean, what's so painful about this whole thing isn't necessarily the fact that he... you know, hit me. Of course, yeah, he hit me-- if it were just that, and Rory weren't in the picture somehow, I would've had him drawn and quartered anyway-- but he revoked any chance I had at being with someone real, finally having a partner I can trust and confide in and... you know, all that relationshippy stuff I never really got to have."

"And you wanted that with him?"

She was silent. And she knew she shouldn't have been for that long. Or at all. "He was... familiar. He was someone I didn't have to get to know all over again as an adult."

Luke exhaled long, audibly, like one does when something is finally understood. By the other person.

"Oh, God. That sounds so pathetic. Does that sound pathetic?" It made her cringe that she even had to ask. She buried her face in her hands. Pathetic. Didn't want to hear Luke's response.

When he did speak, it was from somewhere that felt far, far behind her. "Well, no, I understand the whole dating thing. You try to avoid that whenever possible."

He waited. She groaned into her hands.

"And you already knew someone who met all the criteria. In most respects."

"So... you get it?" She turned her head just enough to see him out of the corner of her eye. He was leaning back, hands on the mattress behind him.

"Well, I didn't before."

"But it turned out that way?"

He glanced at her quickly then sat himself up. Didn't answer.

Didn't have to. Pathetic.

"You wanted companionship. Someone to share things with."

"Yeah."

"Someone who knows you really well. Already. Without spending time plowing his way through the convoluted synapses of your mind."

"Yeah..."

"Someone who, ahem, tolerates your yammering and needling and pointless banter and diatribes and--"

"Yeah," she interrupted.

He was quiet, poking curiously, intently, at a threadbare spot in the blanket. "But it didn't have to be Chris."

He eyed her cautiously as she removed her head from her hands, resting her chin on a fist. "No. It didn't."

She looked at him then. Right at his eyes, because she knew what he meant. He stared back at her just as intensely. This was one of those times when she'd look away, or he would. But neither did.

"But I didn't know that." She hadn't planned on saying that, but there it was. A hushed whisper between them.

"You should have." It thrummed in her chest. His voice; low and quiet and reverberating.

She swallowed, peripherally picking out silhouettes of furniture around the room while her eyes stayed fixed on him. Her chest tightening, voice faltering. "Why did you bring me here?"  
He leaned in, reaching out a hand and scarcely brushing his fingertips across the skin under her eye. She was stilled. Lips parted. Breathing silently.

"Because you needed me to." He squinted in the darkness, barely recognizing the shadow around her eye.

She pictured his face in front of hers, dimly lit by the Stars Hollow streetlamp. She remembered his eyes searching her body, his thumb tracing the stains down her cheek. She felt her feet ache against the warm cement.

Smelled his flannel as he carried her to his truck, arms gripping tightly her back, her legs.

Smelled his soap as he sat next to her now. Held her breath, body tense and flushed in the thick silence. Frightened.

She wanted him to reach for her, pull her close, let her curl up in his lap. Fall asleep while he stroked her hair again, because he'd only done it twice tonight, yet she could still feel his fingers against her skin. She could still feel his chest rising and falling steadily; solidly.

She wanted him to hold her.

She waited under his stare for him to move. He didn't. He sat there, unflinching. And breathing hard. She felt like screaming.  
She clasped her hands around his, pulling it away from her face and into her lap. He shifted in place then, the mattress squeaking beneath. The crickets and the wall clock suddenly becoming audible as though they weren't before.

"Well. Thank you, then. You know, for... tolerating the synapses of my mind." She smirked, rising hesitantly from the bed. Wobbly and unbalanced in the darkness.

"Oh, anytime." He slipped his hand from hers. Immediately drew it back to the fray. "You should know by now that I'm used to it."  
She stood in the doorway, watching him toy nervously with the blanket. Couldn't make out his eyes anymore. "Oh, I do. " She spoke to his shadow.

He looked up just as she turned to leave, just catching the faintest smile on her lips.


	8. Chapter 8

His parents had bought the cabin, just a single room at the time, not long after they were married. They'd settled quickly into Stars Hollow, before opening the hardware store, then had driven out every few days for almost three summers.

They'd renovated here and there, slowly adding onto the small structure, doing it little by little. Planters in the windowsill one weekend, curtains and a spare closet the next. For her birthday, a small flower garden, and for his, a new gray toolbox waiting in the bed of his truck. Their second anniversary was the fireplace, their third anniversary another bedroom. And Luke.

It wasn't this history, however, that Luke was momentarily concerned with; rather, it was that of the water pipes throughout the cabin, probably installed around the time Liz was born. And hadn't been replaced since. And they were currently alerting him of their distress with a series of extremely high-pitched whines.

Pushing through the bleary-eyed haze he'd awoken in, he teetered groggily out of his room, smoothing his hair and rubbing his cheeks.

It was too late to go fishing, he surmised, too late to make it a worthwhile trip. He glanced out the window; the sunlight was in from well above the evergreens. He wasn't sure how he'd slept so long. The faucet squeaked from inside the bathroom, sounds of water stopping, the pipes sighing from the effort.

Stepping into the kitchen, he held up the pound of coffee he'd bought and realized that half the bag was gone. The coffee maker, at least a few years old, shuddered and steamed under the stress of Lorelai's addiction.

"This is obscene," he muttered under his breath.

"What?" She appeared behind him, towel-clad and drying her hair.

Luke turned to face her, started at her appearance and let his eyes wander, for just a brief second, before dropping them shamefully. His skin flushed a deep pink.

"I... uh, I can't believe you used all the, um, coffee. I bought."

She contained her smile at his embarrassment, then slid ahead of him, pouring herself a cup. He stood behind her, unable to tear his eyes away from the droplets of water glinting on her bare shoulders.

She could feel his eyes on her. It made her nervous; jittery. She almost dropped the coffee pot.

"Do you have more clothes I can borrow for today?" She faced him, peering over her mug as she spoke. Luke composed himself as quickly as he could.

"Sure. Lemme just... go check." He jerked his thumbs in the direction of the room, the peculiarity of her presence in the cabin still startling to him. 

Lorelai released the tension in her muscles as he exited the room, letting her grin spread, then drain out of her cheeks.

She'd been up early; wandered around the house, startled by how different everything looked in the light. Peeked in on Luke, who was fast asleep, and began making coffee. Avoided the mirror. Looked in every closet for a TV, only finding a small radio under the sink. Discovered a drawer filled with decks of cards. Didn't think about Christopher. Turned her thoughts to Luke instead, inspecting the lures in his tackle box and poking through his medicine cabinet.

A sharp nagging feeling had taken up residence in her midsection, like she was missing something vital, had forgotten something important. She knew, when she thought about it rationally, that it was because she was supposed to be at work right now, having spent the morning at Luke's and helping Rory pack and choosing an outfit and returning calls. Instead, she was drinking Yuban in a log cabin.

Luke came back with an armful of clothes. "Here," he said, dumping them on the table. "I found these in Liz's old bureau, I don't know if... well, it's all twenty-five years old. But I thought there might be something. And if there's not, you can wear these." On top of the haphazard pile lay a neatly folded white undershirt, blue boxers and sweatpants. "It's hot, though."

She rifled through the pile, flattening a ruffled paisley shirt and bell-bottoms against her frame.

"Mm. Groovy."

"I told you, they're old," he grumbled, leaving the room so she could change.

One pair of patched-up daisy dukes and a hot pink one-piece later, she was ready to go. She flounced into his room and spun around, showing off her outfit, cringing in the realization that her muscles were opposed to the flouncing.

He tossed an old pair of black-and-white checkered Vans at her feet. "Here, they were in the closet." She made a face as she tried them on, but couldn't find cause for complaint when they fit.

"Okay. I'm ready. I look like a confused hobo, but I'm ready."

He looked her up and down. "No, you're not." He took her arm and led her back to the bathroom.

"But Dad," she whined, "I already peed."

"Stand still," Luke ordered. He gently reapplied ointment to her eye and wrist, watching her out of the corner of his eye for signs of pain.

"How does it feel today?" he asked as she winced.

"Fabulous," she grumbled. He was really putting a damper on her denial here.

"It won't be as sore tomorrow. And it won't hurt any more than it does right now, the day after is always the worst."

She grunted in response, choosing to focus on his pursed lips instead of her throbbing skin. He was inches away from her. Again.

"Do you have a headache this morning?"

"No."

"And you're sure you didn't hit your head on anything?"

"Not since the head-butting contest Rory and I had the other day."

He put a few final dabs of Neosporin on her cut and stepped away. She glanced at the mirror. "I didn't know shiners were actually shiny," she quipped, walking out of the room.

"It's the ointment. Not your skin."

She walked straight to the front door. "So where we going?"

"Were we going somewhere?"

"Well, you came here to go fishing, right? So let's fish."

"It's too late." He sighed. "It's already noon."

"So the fish are what, on their lunch break?"

"No," he replied testily. "It's just that most fish aren't active during full daylight hours."

"We won't catch anything, then. Come on, it's better than sitting here and watching our skin melt in the heat."

His voice was laced with apprehension, his brow perplexed. "Don't you think you should stay in today?"

"Stay here? In this barren wasteland of entertainment? I don't think so."

He sighed again, his tone begrudging. "Fine. We'll need to pack a lunch, then."

"What, we can't get something on the way?"

Luke shook his head, because another sigh would've made him hyperventilate.


	9. Chapter 9

A half hour later, they were sitting opposite one another in the little skiff, basket of hastily-prepared food between them.

"It's beautiful out here," she said quietly as Luke handed her the rod. He nodded.

"Hey, I thought you were giving me the pink sparkly squid lure," she protested, examining the boring hunk of rubber at the end of the line.

"This one's more practical. You're not going to catch any worthwhile fish with that thing."

"Hey, just because a fish would be attracted to something pink and sparkly doesn't make him any less worthwhile than the other fish."

He glared and took back her pole.

"So what're we fishing for here?" she asked brightly.

"Well," he exhaled, "the majority of what you'll catch in here is scrod, maybe some pike."

"Scrod?" 

"Scrod."

"So..." she smirked devilishly. "You could potentially, any minute now, have scrod on the end of your rod?"

"I knew this was a bad idea."

"Fishing is dirty," she giggled.

The water lapped against the side of the boat as Luke cast his reel. He adjusted his cap and tapped at the plastic edge of the rod's spindle. 

"And kind of boring."

"It's usually more of a silent activity, actually."

After that her incessant chatter stopped, though he couldn't tell if it came of complacency or happy accident.

They sat together for some time, occasionally flicking their reels, both deep in thought. 

Soon, though, the silence turned from comfortable to worrisome. He sneaked a glance out of the corner of his eye; she was staring absently at the picnic basket. Focusing on the lake, then back at her, he realized she wasn't even blinking.

"Hey." 

"Hmm?"

"You hungry?"

She smiled as if she were embarrassed, as if he had been reading her thoughts. "Sure."

He secured their poles and pulled out two salami sandwiches, both wrapped in wax paper from the eighties. Soon they were both chewing peacefully, a small tower of Wheat Thins resting on Luke's knee.

"Are you seriously eating salami?" She didn't let the giant bite she'd taken get in the way of her sneering words. "Isn't this sandwich like, a heart attack wrapped in a coronary and smothered in angina sauce?"

"That's disgusting," he muttered. "And yes."

"So, twenty-four hours stuck with me in a cabin in the woods and you're suddenly begging for an early death?"

He smiled. "It's just... I don't know. You can't be good all the time, right?" He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, then took a bite and swallowed thoughtfully. "Plus, you know, it's tradition. My dad and I spent hours on this boat together. Eating salami sandwiches."

"Yeah, I know how you feel. My dad and I used to spend hours alone together too, only staring at each other from across the dinner table in really awkward silence. And then I'd steal his brandy. So I totally know how it is."

He failed to acknowledge her snide comment, speaking in a surprisingly warm tone. "You know, even if you don't have good memories from your childhood, you've given so many to Rory by now that it almost... cancels out. You've made up for your own family's mistakes by giving her what you always wanted."

"Yeah, really great memories. Like your dad socking your mom in the face. This incident alone is gonna be worth five grand in therapy bills and at least one overdose in her future."

He wasn't sure how to respond, or how comfortable he was responding to such a thing. He cleared his throat. "So, uh, how long were you thinking of being out here?"

Her dismissive verbal whiplash continued. "Well, if I'm going to go back into town looking like this, I'm going to have to wait until these--" she wiggled her shoe at him-- "are back in style. So, probably never."

"What, Lorelai, a few days? A few weeks? The whole summer?"

"Luke!" She pushed his knee playfully. "Come on, I don't know. I haven't really thought about it yet."

He didn't flinch. "If I hadn't found you last night, would you've told me what he did to you?"

She was taken aback for just a second, then seemed amused at the thought. "God, probably not. You would've Nicky-Santoro'd him in the neck with that geeky pen you keep in your pocket."

Then his head was in his hands, and he was moaning. "God, Lorelai, just stop."

"What!" She was taken aback, confused.

He breathed a heavy sigh. "You're not taking anything seriously. I hoped that you could either come out here and get your mind off things, or be able to really talk about what happened. And you're not doing either, you're just bringing it up and making jokes about it, and it's not dealing with anything. At least, not in a mature, adult manner. Be honest with yourself, please. And stop making jokes, because there's nothing funny about this." He stopped and took a breath, relieved to spill his words. He knew it probably wasn't the best way to handle it. But it evened the score with her.

She was immediately stricken by his tone; her face fell as he spoke, his words resonating in her mind.

She sat in silence for some time, trying to understand why he was asking her to deal with this differently. It was only in the past few hours that she felt like her old self had returned, that it was possible to begin acting normally again.

But if he was asking her to do it differently, she would try.

As she turned and glared out into the water, the skin around her eye beginning to throb. Thoughts of Christopher made her feel ill, and she found her mind instantly falling again on thoughts of Luke. She didn't want to deal with Chris. She wanted to deal with Luke.

But not because he was safe. Not because he would never act like Christopher. But because he'd brought her here, because he'd taken care of her. Because he was better than her. Always had been.

And because last night he'd given her the confirmation she'd been seeking for so long.

Luke moved the basket from between them, seating himself on the plank in front of Lorelai. Their legs were awkwardly interlocked, her bare knee brushing his side pocket.

"What are you doing?" she asked, startled.

He reached forward and cupped her face tenderly, his other hand sweeping back the curls and pinning them to her temple with a thumb.

"I think you're getting blisters," he said softly, surveying the bruise. "But I don't have any sunscreen in the boat."

"Oh."

"We should go back."

Her face, crestfallen, turned away from his hands. "Okay. Sure."

"Actually, here." He lifted the blue cap off his head, setting it on hers. The brim fell well down below her eyes, covering her bruise almost completely. Lorelai hadn't realized how much pain the sun was giving her until she felt the shade.

"Better," she said, tilting her head back to look at him. She smiled as he smoothed his hair. "Thanks."

"Yeah. And... I'm sorry I snapped," he muttered. "You should deal with this however you want to deal with it."

She nodded sagely. "And I think I know how I want to deal with it now."

"You do?"

She nodded again. "Castration."

He laughed. "Castration, huh?"

"Well..." She cocked her head to the side, as if to think about it, still grinning broadly. "We could cover him in honey and roll him over an ant hill."

"Eating the face, a very nice touch."

"Ooh, or! We could drop an anvil, or like a safe or a piano, on his head from the top of an apartment building, like in those old cartoons? Or flesh-eating bacteria, we could put it in one of those mail-bombs. The guillotine, that's a classic, and very in right now."

"The French never go out of style," he added, allowing himself to play along. "Reliable, too."

"Mm. Messy, though."

"True."

In the silence, she adjusted the brim of her cap and smiled. "This really completes the look. Thank you."

"What look, crack-pot chic?"

She smiled again, but didn't answer. He noticed that her expression, though still bright, was beginning to cloud over.

Suddenly she pulled the brim down lower and ducked her head down onto her lap, breathing deeply.

"I'm not dealing with it, really, am I?" Her voice was muffled by her legs.

He sighed along with her and rubbed her shoulder. "You're going to be fine. I promise."

Coming from anyone else, they would have been hollow words. But from Luke, somehow, they carried worth. And she chose to see it as a guarantee of sorts. If he were there with her, she would remain.

She uncovered her reddened face.

"You really think it'll turn out alright, huh?"

"Well, I don't know." He looked down uncomfortably, shifting his weight, fiddling with the stray wicker on the basket. "I guess..." He met her eyes expectantly, hints of a smile dragging his lips. "You could always strip him naked and leave him in Miss Patty's studio. Probably not as messy as the guillotine."

Then she reached to him, taking hold of the back of his neck, gently closing her eyes and pulling him into a quiet kiss.

Her nose was pressed into his cheek.

He was floored at first, shocked at what seemed to be happening. Then overwhelmed, a bit confused. Then in awe.

Then, he kissed her back.

He was still surprised, but he kissed her back. Tilting his head to the left so he didn't disturb her cap. 

When he shifted closer, now in his right mind, about to take stronger hold of her lips-- she shied her head back, pulling away. It was a very slight movement, but he drew back instantly, sensing her hesitation.

The moment their eyes opened and met, the vulnerability they both glimpsed was unbearable. They looked away simultaneously, Lorelai smiling to herself, Luke clearing his throat.

"So," she began casually, just a hint of caution in her voice.

Immediately, his stomach tensed in fear of her words. She shouldn't be talking right now. He needed time to catch up first, for his mind to quit hemorrhaging and his heart to stop pirouetting around his chest. He opened his mouth to say something first, but the combination of what-was-that and why-did-you-do-that and it's-okay-if-you-didn't-mean-it and can-we-do-it-again all got lodged in his throat at once, and then she was speaking.

"Wanna go swimming?"

She saw that she'd caught him off-guard. "Swimming?"

He squeezed her knee, fighting for control of his sanity. "But if we go swimming..." What the hell does that mean? Did you want to mess around in the water, or actually do laps or something? Why don't you seem phased by what just happened? Is this how you're dealing with it? "It'll disturb the fish."

Lorelai looked at him quizzically, but didn't push him. "Okay." She picked up her reel, casting it into the water as he'd shown her.


	10. Chapter 10

A thick blanket of moths coated the front door of the cabin. Luke threw pebbles from a distance of fifteen feet until they had all fluttered away; he rushed Lorelai and himself inside, before they scampered through the air after them.

Luke had laid a fresh flannel on her bed while she showered quickly; Lorelai had finished off the last of the Oreos while he took his turn. Too bad they hadn't caught anything; fish would be good right now.

She was crawling under the sheets when he'd emerged from the steamy bathroom. Lying on her back, hands on her stomach, lamp still on when he walked past in his towel.

He stopped in her doorway when he saw her, trying to come up with something, some final line that would segue their day into its end.

She sat up when she noticed his presence. "Yeah?" Eyed the towel locked firmly around his hips.

"Oh.. I uh, just wanted to say goodnight." He scratched at his dripping hair. Waited for her response.

"Right. Um, goodnight Luke." She flicked off her lamp and listened to his footsteps padding across the floor. She turned on her side, clamping her eyes shut, willing herself to fall asleep. Frowning when realizing sleep was nowhere near.

Luke was near, though. In the other room, actually. Down the hall. Probably slipping himself underneath the covers. Probably seconds away from sleep.

She shot upright, swiveled her legs over the mattress, and tip-toed out her door. There wasn't light pouring from his room, so she hesitated just outside. Seconds were slipping by, but she knew that the longer she stood there the angrier he'd be when she finally did knock. So she knocked.

"Yeah?" His answer was muffled by the door.

She wrung her hands and winced. She hadn't planned this far. "Oh, well I just..." She flung her hands in the air. You what, Lorelai? "Was cold and wondered if there was another blanket? That I could have?" She waited. Everything was silent. Then he flung the door open, startling her. She jumped backward.

"Oh, hi." She grinned up at him.

He regarded her for a second before disappearing back into his room. Now in a rumpled t-shirt and pajama pants. She stood in his doorway, confused, until he reappeared with a folded blanket in hand. 

"Good?" He held it toward her.

"Yes, very good thanks." She smiled again, turning and heading back to her room.

She sat on her bed, blanket folded neatly in her lap, balking in the dark. Her toe tapped frantically on the floor as she replayed the scene in her head. Short; mono-syllabic; mono-worded, actually. No underlying tone. No lingering glance. Dammit.

She was pacing the room now. The decision was made, but a plan would be formed first. They'd kissed.

Under normal conditions she'd be calm, happily so. But this was what it was, and she was agitated. It had to be discussed.

Plan formed.

She creaked her way back to his door, knocking lightly, arms crossed. Waiting.

She started the moment the knob turned. "What?"

"What did it mean to you?"

"Huh?" He squinted down at her through the darkness.

"We kissed today. I wanna know what it meant to you." She stared at his shoulder. Her fingers toyed with each other.

Luke sighed, shifting his weight to one foot. "You kissed me too, you know."

"I know."

"So what do you think it meant?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking." She looked in his eyes then.

"What do you want it to mean?"

"That's not the point! I wanna talk about it!"

"Lorelai, can we discuss this in the morning?"

She sighed, peering down at the floor. Luke wears socks to bed, she noted.

"Fine. 'Night, Luke." She turned and walked away without glancing back.

And she was in her room again, under her covers, staring unblinkingly out the window. Remembering the kiss. The sudden unexpectedness; softness; meaningfulness, at the time. But it hadn't been discussed, its intentions now mystifying.

She jolted upright when her door flew open.

"How could you not know what that meant?"

"Luke!"

"After what we talked about last night? After what was discussed today?"

"Nothing was discussed! Hence the me asking the why about the meaning!"

"Alright fine. I'm sorry. We'll talk about it in the morning." And he disappeared before she could counter.

She lay back down, covering her face with her hands. Stupid, stupid Lorelai. She scrunched her eyebrows; rattled by the silence. Until she heard his feet creaking across the floorboards again.

"You think I did it out of pity?" And he was back in her doorway.

"What! Pity? I--"

"You think it's all going to go away, that it'll never be thought of, brought up, or remembered again after we leave here?"

"Luke no!" But he'd disappeared again. She sat motionless in her bed. Stunned. Pissed.

Pity? What the hell?

It hadn't even crossed her mind. It had crossed his, though, obviously. Perhaps he'd been thinking it all day. Or last night too, while she'd confessed that maybe, somehow, at some point in time she'd considered him someone worth considering.

Damn him.

And she'd jumped out of bed again.

Damn him!

Strode out her door.

This is so not over.

Glided down the hallway, fists clenching, smacking right into his chest.

"Hey!" he roared.

"What the hell are you doing!" She stepped back.

"I'm not done yelling at you!"

"Well me either! At you, that is." Her arms were crossed in front of her chest, and she stared up at him, daring him to respond.

He sighed, mixed it with a groan. She was angrier at herself right now, that she'd ruined their perfect day. That she'd questioned their perfect kiss.

She felt like crap.

"I'm sorry," she whispered up at him.

He took a step closer. "If it's too much right now, if you wanna forget about it, we can--"

"No. I don't want to forget it." She stepped closer too. "It's just... everything's so fast right now and-- not with you, you've been here forever. But with Christopher, everything was so fast, and that's over, and believe me, I'm fine that it's over, I really just... I meant what I said. Last night. And I think I'm just trying to wrap my mind around it still."

"Okay," he ventured hesitantly. "So it wasn't... you're not just dealing with me because..."

"Because what?"

"Because you don't want to deal with him?"

Her eyes widened and she bowed her head, her hand to the bridge of her nose. "Oh my God. That's what this must seem like do you. Doesn't it? Luke, no. I don't... that's not why it happened. At all. I'm dealing with you because I want to deal with you."

He frowned.

"Do you understand that?

Luke shifted his weight, brow creased, and nodded slightly. "Yeah."

"And do you believe me?"

He paused for a moment, then took a step back. He usually knew when she was lying, but it was too dark to see her eyes. He needed to breathe, to think about this.

"Luke? Do you believe me?"

Her voice wavered only slightly. Still no answer from Luke. Lack of response filled the hallway, making it more difficult to think. And breathe.

Seconds turned over quickly, minutes began piling themselves on. She could've easily convinced herself that no one was there. She strained to hear him breathing. Maybe she'd imagined him to begin with. Maybe she was the last person left on earth.

Reaching out cautiously, she needed to make sure he was still with her. And she'd almost completely extended her arm when she felt the cotton at her fingertips. He was still there.

He softened, feeling her imploring touch. It forced the words out of him. "I believe you," he said quietly.

Lorelai sighed audibly in relief. "Good."

A pause.

"Because I really need you to believe me, Luke."

He tried not to sigh when he said it, taking a step closer. "I know."

She stepped forward as well, a strip of light from the far window delineating her features. Luke peered at her through the darkness until he was confident that, if she were lying, she wasn't aware of it.

"So..."

"So." He brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. "When you kissed me… you meant it. Right?" He dipped his head down toward hers as they both leaned closer. She suddenly felt very aware of the symbolism of his shirt wrapped around her skin.

"I meant it," she confirmed, barely managing a controlled calm in her voice. "I mean, yeah. I meant it. I was the one who started it." Her eyes closed. It was dark; she couldn't see anyway.

"So why did you ask?" And his breath was on her skin now--

"Just wanted confirmation." --as her hands reached for his shoulders.

And when his mouth pressed against hers, hard and greedily, her mind fell blissfully clear.

She squeezed her arms around his neck, standing on tip toe to match his height as she pressed her body more firmly against his.

She sighed against his mouth, a sort of exasperated sound that made Luke rub his hands up and down over her back.

She pressed her cheek against his, squeezing his neck again harder with her arms.

"You okay?" He mumbled into her ear.

She nodded, moved by his concern and aroused by his voice. Hands rubbing; skin against skin were it not for flannel, she imagined.

"Yes, thank you." She turned her face into his neck. "Are you okay?"

She felt him nod against her temple. Pressure from his fingertips.

"You been just, so good to me. And I yelled at you." Lips against his neck.

"I yelled at you too." He drew back enough to see her face. Lorelai, in his cabin, in his flannel, in his arms, looking in his eyes.

Kissing his lips. Again. Squeezing his neck.

Rubbing her back.

Pulling away.

"Well, we should get back. To our rooms. It's late." Rubbing his cheeks in her palms.

"Yeah, we should." Sliding his hands down her back.

"You know, eventually," she whispered against his mouth as it covered hers again. Hands in his hair. Hands cupping curves. Pressing her against his hips. There was no way he could reason against this.

"Mmm. So, night Lorelai." They didn't move.

"Night Luke." She pecked him quickly on the lips. Still didn't move. Hands left his shoulders; palms smoothed over his chest; fingers traced his stomach. 

Eyes watched each other. Breaths were sighed.

"So you know what this means too?" His chest vibrated under her hands when he spoke.

She spoke to his collar. "I knew it at the lake." Kiss. "I knew it last night." Another kiss. "I've known it for five years." Longer kiss.

He buried his face in her neck; pressed her up against him with arms around her waist; she tilted her head back; moaned.

"So... eventually..." she breathed.

He took a step back, pulling her with him, and stopped. They stared each other down for just a second. Pulling her another step back. Another stare.

"Lorelai… you really want this?"

She smirked, daring him to take another step.

He grabbed her waist and hoisted her up against him as she drew his head to hers, pressed her mouth to his.

And he backed slowly into his bedroom.

The window is open as he makes love to her, cool air nipping at hot skin.

He fills her slowly, achingly. Watching her intently, reactively. Pulsing harder when she moans; pressing lips against her eyelids when she squeezes them shut. Losing his concentration when she sighs hot breath in his ear.

Legs wrap around his waist. Fingers wrap around his arms. Voice wraps around his brain, begging him; pleading with him for... something.

"Luuuke..." Hot breath. "I need--"

"Tell me." Slow, controlled pulsing.

"I need..." Aching.

"Lorelai." Throbbing.

"I need you." Shaking.

"I'm here. I'm right here." Rasping low. In her ear.

"Inside me, Luke. Harder." Pleading. "I need you."

Thrust. Again.

Whispering; rasping.

She shudders beneath him, back arching, eyes clenching.

He thrusts harder, faster, watching her move and writhe underneath him.

Harder. She moans.

Faster. She grips. Fingers kneading; nails clawing.

Breaths escaping.

Tongues lick and hands roam and he cradles her with his forearms. And she breathes his name; pushes everything out of her mind with a cringe.

She's coming for him with an arched back, with his hand at her waist pulling her to sit up in his lap. Her arms cling around his chest. Her forehead lies against his shoulder.

And she cries.

He doesn't ask why; he doesn't speak at all other than hushes and whispers of "It's okay... shhh..." as he rocks her gently back and forth, soothing her under his hands, pressing her against him; letting her cry and sob and sniffle into his skin.

She stares unflinchingly, rigidly, out the window. At the trees. They seem to sway with her.

And as Lorelai drifts off sleepily, Luke places her beneath him again. He presses his body against hers, his nose in the crook of her neck.


	11. Chapter 11

He was jolted awake at dawn, startled by the speed of his thoughts. 

Their bodies had been reconfigured at some point during the night; she was draped over him now, her ear pressed into his chest. Luke relocated the blanket, tucking the corners under him, securing her to his body.

He glanced down, watched the top of her head lilt softly as he inhaled.

He pictured her, closed his eyes and recalled her face, knowing that the complexities of their undertaking had reached every conceivable emotion. Thinking about their night together, he could picture her laughing, crying; crinkling her brow in concern, then in anger, in climax. Understanding that she had used him to work out so many of her frustrations, trying to ignore the voice that said he didn't care why they did it, because they finally did. Knowing full well that what had transpired between them, the reel of memories that would be incessantly replayed in his mind, was likely much different from hers.

She would assure him otherwise if he asked. She would persuade him, as she had earlier, that she just wanted to be with him. That it was desire, the desire just for him, that had roused her hands, urged them to the back of his neck, and pulled him into her lips for the first time. The same desire that encouraged those hands to unbutton his shirt, trace the dimples in his lower back, clutch the pillow in lieu of a headboard.

He certainly knew better. He hadn't let himself believe her at the time, but he'd wanted to. Enough to push it from his mind and step closer, take her hand. To convince himself that he knew her well enough, that he could make her forget about why she was there in the first place.

And though he wanted to know now, to have some intimate knowledge of the purity of her affections for him, he knew it wasn't possible. 

Because it wasn't that she didn't want him. It was that she needed him. Emotionally, and now physically, she was coming to depend on him.

He let his thumb arc slowly across her skin, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, then upwards. Cupping the nape of her neck. He knew she would always try to convince herself she had control, no matter the situation. She would insist that she had slept with him by choice, that she had exercised free will in the matter. Her head had rendered the verdict and her heart had complied. Together, agreed to banish Christopher. To embrace Luke. To be an adult.

Luke knew better than to convince her otherwise. And he knew better than to upset himself over what couldn't be changed.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Huge thanks to our beta, **FauxFrancie/George Eliot**.

* * *

Lorelai stirred, breathing in deeply, feeling well-rested. Waiting patiently for her mind to clear, for her memory to fade back in and tell her why she was naked and why the sun was so bright.

She would've liked a few more minutes of mental sorting before hearing a soft knock at the door.

Luke stepped in, fully dressed, and handed her a cup of hot coffee. "Be careful," he warned, as she twisted herself into a sitting position, pulling the sheets along with her.

She blinked and smiled in the harsh sunlight. "Thank you."

Luke sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, hesitantly rubbing her thigh as he spoke. "I'm sorry I…" His eyes swept over the bed. "I had to go out and get more coffee."

She blew gently into the mug, steam rising into her face. "You didn't have to." She took a sip, then placed a hand over his. "Why are you so sweet to me?"

He shrugged awkwardly, then reached out to tip her face toward the light. "Your eye looks better."

"It feels better."

"Good."

Silence.

"Well," Luke cleared his throat. "I'm gonna go bring the rest of the bags in from the truck, I got some more stuff to put on that bruise. Should make it heal faster." He'd barely finished his sentence before he was out the door.

Lorelai stared after him. She hadn't expected an awkward morning-after.

She wasn't sure she'd ever had an awkward morning-after. Setting down the mug and wrapping the sheet around her body, she followed Luke through the main room and out the door. "Hey."

He looked up from the bed of the truck, where he had been sorting through paper bags. "Yeah?"

She squinted into the harsh light. "Are those Mallomars?"

He looked down at the package in his hand. "Yup."

Lorelai suddenly looked like she was on the verge of tears. "You got me Mallomars?"

"I…" He wasn't quite sure how to respond. "Yes. I got you Mallomars. Are you… okay?" He gestured with the package.

She laughed abruptly, then dropped her forehead into her palms. "I'm fine… I just..." She looked up, a bit puzzled. "I'm pretty sure this is the most white trash moment of my life. Look at me, I'm standing on a porch, naked and barefoot with a black eye, about to eat a package of Mallomars for breakfast with the guy I just slept with. Pretty soon I'm gonna start drinking King Cobra and calling you Wayne."

He put the bag down, walking up the steps to her. He rearranged the sheet around her shoulders and kissed her cheek. "You are not white trash."

She sniffled. Luke sat down on the porch swing a few steps away, pulling her down onto his lap. "You sure you're fine?"

Nodding, she bit her lip and smiled feebly. Looked down. This was one of those moments. "You want to do this with me, right?"

One of those moments, by way of one of those questions.

Luke glanced away, looking in the direction of the spot he'd walked to earlier that morning. Sitting by the water. Thinking about her, about their situation.

He'd thought back to that first day, the first time she ever asked for his help.

Running into the diner, ranting about cold ovens and gooey cake batter, pacing in front of the counter and wringing her hands. Also the first time he learned she couldn't cook.

She'd been willing to sell her house to him, along with her CDs, her soul, and a fridge named Melvin. If he'd be willing to bake a birthday cake.

And for some reason, he did bake a cake, refusing any sort of payment. Alarmed when she'd started crying at the sight of the three-layered chocolate work of art on her doorstep, wondering what he'd gotten himself into with this woman.

But she'd eventually convinced him to join the party, staying by his side the whole night. Let him feel included in something for the first time.

He needed her, too.

In a different way, and certainly for different reasons, but he depended on her just as much as she depended on him.

All he needed to know, the only thing he was unsure about, the one thing that was making him so nervous around her now— was whether or not she was willing to be there for him, in the same way that he was willing to do anything for her.

Luke scooted her closer to him, holding her to him. Looked up into her face, kissing her softly. "I really do."

Her grin spread against his lips, his smile kissing her in response. "I was hoping you'd say that."

_end._


End file.
